Best of Intentions
by Galaxyrunner
Summary: It'd be nice if doing someone a favor didn't put a giant wrench in one's plans. Okay, so it was a paid favor, but that has nothing to do with the size of the wrench! Helping this woman will be either the best, or the worst, decision of Edward's life. Finding out which might be harder than it looks as the Templars are closing in, and they're after more than just the Observatory...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Writing fanfiction always makes me nervous as I want to get the characters as right as I possibly can-hopefully it doesn't show. I needed more Edward in my life and, well, the idea of spinning my own yarn with him wouldn't bugger off. Here we go! I've taken liberties where I felt they were necessary, of course, and hope you enjoy the bit of a twist I've put on things. Rated as such for my own comfort as I'd rather not have to censor/edit down if it comes to it. Mostly featuring the pirate himself but other characters may be mentioned or appear briefly. Won't add 'em to the list unless they stick around some, however. _I do not write slash._ The usual disclaimers apply; much as I'd love to lay claim to Assassin's Creed and Edward Kenway, I cannot. Shoot. Darn. Enjoy!

* * *

Ah, yes. Catcalls and high spirits, the smell of spiced rum (and a few other smells no one wanted to think about overmuch), the sun soaring to its zenith in a sky almost too blue to be real…few places compared. Though on this particular day, the pirate Edward Kenway wasn't exactly enjoying the atmosphere. No, he was busy doing something different.

He was, quite frankly, sulking.

The day was _beautiful!_ He and his Jackdaw ought to be out in it. Taking a prize or two, perhaps, and continuing the hunt for the Observatory. Instead, the lot of them were docked at Kingston while repairs were made to her hull and the ragged chunks missing from her sides replaced. _Be grateful,_ he reminded himself, tossing back his drink and gesturing to the barmaid for another. She was no Anne, but she was quite pretty, and not immune to his charms despite the churlish cast on his otherwise handsome face. If they hadn't all been there… Well. Blackbeard would be drinking damnation with all the other pirates who had the misfortune of running into the King's Navy alone and severely outnumbered. It ought to have been a celebration of his retirement, and he'd even given up a tip about the Sage and the slave-ship _Princess_ he was rumored to be aboard. Edward might've happily gotten drunk with the rest of them, if just to take the edge off the sorrow at losing the friend and mentor he'd found in Thatch, but Vane had mucked all that right up.

 _And a good thing, too,_ Edward thought, though it didn't much help his frustration at being grounded. Having also done a right fine job annoying Blackbeard (a grand farewell sendoff that was), he'd stomped off to his ship. In fact, it was more than likely one could hear him still stomping around the deck even as they set sail, leaving the broken dreams of Blackbeard somehow swooping in and saving Nassau from ruin behind. Good riddance. Or it would've been, if Vane hadn't sailed smack-dab into the middle of the ambush creeping up on the island. Cannon fire drew the pirate's attention, as it was wont to do, and all had leapt into action. Well. Perhaps the more inebriated of them rolled rather than leapt, but the end result was Blackbeard's life and his goal of retirement safe and sound for the time being. Oh yes, and the small matter of the poor Jackdaw, having taken heavy fire in the defense of his friend's weaker brigs. Even so, they were alive. All of them. Blackbeard could seek out a quieter place to settle, Vane could continue his pissing and moaning over the potential pardons and loss of Nassau, and Edward could… _Keep searching for a man and a place nobody wants to believe exists,_ he grumbled inwardly. It was as if from day one the universe heard his desire to become a man of means, of _quality,_ and had conspired against him ever since.

Well. When the repairs were finished, they'd head back out to open water. Taking ships and their petty prizes—for what could possibly compare to the potential of the Observatory?—did keep the crew's spirits up, as Ade had pointed out. If he was to find the bloody place, he needed a crew to help sail the Jackdaw. Few, if any, would stay if he chased the Templar's dream alone. And all were eager to strike back against the Navy now for the way they'd tried to take down the infamous Blackbeard. See, he could compromise! _Dammit._ A fresh tankard of rum materialized in front of him with a dull clunk and he found a smile for the woman who'd brought it, though she only frowned in response. What, had his charm worn off? Or was his brooding so obvious?

Some of both, maybe. Seabirds called to one another, their cries sharp and angular against the smooth rippling of the ocean as it came lapping up to Kingston's sturdy docks. Deckhands shouted back and forth, relaying orders from higher up. Therein lay part of the problem with bars that sprawled into the street. What with the doors hanging wide open, there was no quiet corner to lurk (or sulk) in, so one might as well take a table outside and enjoy the weather, at least. While he had the table part down, the enjoyment was lacking. He was of a mind to begin trying to change that when a shadow fell over his personal grumpfest. Looking up, he met the serious gray-green eyes of a woman. _Grand,_ he thought, repressing the groan. With that expression, she surely wasn't looking for a good time. Not that he was entirely up for one. Not looking. Busy sulking. When she continued gazing at him, the silence stretching thin, he narrowed his eyes slightly. His age, thereabouts, if he was any judge, though her black hair was prematurely silvering at the temples. Either someone drove her perpetually crazy at home or she enjoyed white paint.

"What is it then, lass?" he asked, growing tired of the staring contest.

"Edward Kenway?"

"Who wants to know?" Suspicion colored his voice. Hers was husky, and appeared to be naturally so as she didn't immediately clear her throat. Her hands were closed a little too tightly over the leather strap securing a small satchel to her shoulder and behind her, a dusty brown horse tied to the flimsy rail surrounding the bar heaved what was, in his very informed opinion, an overly dramatic and weary sigh.

"Mary Read told me I'd find a good man in you, if I looked hard enough," she replied. He snorted and gave in to the sigh. _Jaysus, Mary, what've you gone and gotten me into now?_

"S'pose that depends on who's doing the looking," he muttered, and shifted to get a better look at her. "And what it is they're after."

"I need to get from here… to…" She reached into the bag and fumbled for a moment before coming up with a sad, sorry scrap of paper he hoped no honest person ever actually called a map. "There," she said, pointing to the carefully labeled (and circled) coordinates marking the tiny island.

"Aye, we pirates are known for our ferrying prowess and kindness toward lost folk," he said dryly. Right taxis of the sea, they were! She didn't quite smile.

"Mary said you could help," she repeated.

"Aye, _could,_ " he said, stressing the word. Though that woman did have a way of picking at his conscience, as he'd confided in Ade some time ago, and her particular talents in that area had only grown since she revealed her true gender. Among many other things. This had to do with the Assassins, didn't it? He'd known her for exactly two seconds and already the situation smelled of Creeds and hidden blades. "Best be sharing the story, then," he said bluntly, gesturing at the seat across from him. She hesitated, and he wondered if she'd turn tail and run rather than settle down.

She didn't, but neither was she entirely comfortable. The horse repeated its sighing act and she shushed it.

"I met her in London," she said as he continued to study her over his rum. Something about her, just a tiny, niggling _something,_ reminded him of Caroline. They weren't at all alike in looks. What was it? A pang of loss echoed through his heart and he hastily yanked his mind back to the task at hand. The task of consuming another flagon of rum. Oh, yes, and perhaps doing some listening. Her voice lowered, blending with the sounds around them, men's voices calling for another round and someone, somewhere, doing a terrible job of serenading the pigeons. He leaned forward slightly, engaging the Sense to better pick up her words. "I was to marry a Templar," she said simply, and he blinked, biting his tongue before the curses could cascade into the rum and flavor it with temper. _Dammit, Mary! I want no part in the games your Order plays. Ah, but you do want the Observatory,_ he mocked himself silently. _Only in it for a bit of coin. Make that a_ lot _of coin._ Indeed. "I didn't know what he was at the time. Actually, I've only known about all this for a year or so," she went on. "Very long, and doubtless very boring story short, I assisted Mary a year ago and have been for some time since. As it stands, the Templars are missing some, ah, rather valuable documents, and I don't doubt they want them back." He read between the lines as he tossed back a mouthful of rum.

Mary was trusting him not to outright _steal_ these so-called valuable things like the pirate he was, and help out instead. True, many a man upon hearing the tale—hell, even without it!—wouldn't be honorable with their intentions in the slightest. A woman traveling alone was target enough.

"Pirates don't much care for women on their ships," he said. "Superstitious lot, we are." _Mary don't count._

"Are you the Captain, or aren't you?" she shot back. His eyebrows rose. _That's_ what it was. A noble. She was a thrice-cursed _noble._ It figured. Her nerves ratcheted up several notches as she waited for a response. Truthfully he hadn't seemed in the best of moods when she'd approached him to begin with, and now he was looking at his rum like there may or may not be a severed finger at the bottom. Mary's loose description of the pirate fit well, although the robes and leathers gave him away long before the tousled, barely restrained blonde hair and curving scar on his cheek. Unfortunately it wasn't as if she had the time to be sitting around waiting for _Captain_ Edward Kenway to sober up and put a smile on that handsome face of his. She'd been lurking in Kingston for coming up on two weeks now, hoping for a sign of him when Mary hadn't returned to help her finish the journey as they'd originally hoped. She was tired, and this entire ordeal had been nothing short of hellish. Showing the nerves, though, and the exhaustion, would only do her more harm than good. _It'll be over soon,_ she told herself. Mary trusted this man enough to send her his way. All she had to do was make it through the next few days, meet the Assassin contact who ought to be waiting for her on that island, and _then_...safety. Well. Relatively, anyway.

"And what might your name be?" he asked, and she hoped that was a good sign.

"Elaina," she said. "Elaina Dusanae." He scrutinized her over the rim of the battered mug, blue eyes sharp as the blade hidden away in that brace of his.

Mary was nowhere in sight, and yet he could practically _feel_ his conscience squirm under the prickling.

"This could be a right fancy tale full of shite you're spinning me," he said, but she heard the resignation in his voice.

"Only if your shit-filled tales end in gold," she said, and he gave her an odd look. Nobles and cursing. It just wasn't right. Still, the mention of gold perked him up, predictably. Elaina reached into the bag a second time, flicking the clasp aside in a practiced motion, and drew out a smooth, rounded disc with the Assassin's symbol emblazoned on the surface, and a leather bag of rather deceptive size and weight. He turned the disc over in his hand, shaking his head. A reminder of the Mayan ruins, and the discussion they'd had of the Sense. _Alright, so she ain't lying._ Knowing Mary's real name was proof on its own, but the woman obviously thought ahead.

"If all this is so important to the Assassins," he said, the volume of his voice matching hers as he picked up the pouch of gold. "Why ask me?"

"Mary was hopeful she'd accompany me herself," Elaina said, looking at the map still gracing the scarred tabletop between them. "But she's busy these days, if you hadn't noticed, and she told me if it didn't work out and she couldn't make it back, to find you. So, do you think it's worth it to convince your horde of drunken sailors my presence won't _actually_ cause your ship to instantly sink?" He coughed on a laugh and expertly weighed the money in one hand.

"Aye, I reckon so," he said. "Though I wouldn't be callin' us a _horde_ of anything, lass. Drunk, though, aye, more'n'likely. The Jackdaw's repairs ought to be finished soon. Gather your things and meet me at the docks tomorrow." A short trip to that island, he reasoned. Someone would be waiting to pick her up there, no doubt, and she'd only be his problem for a moment. No Templars were hot on her heels just yet. Mary was trusting him with this. An odd, and mildly unsettling feeling, that one. All and all, the gold was more than ample compensation. Chances were no one would ever suspect the Assassins would deliver someone carrying valuable Templar information directly into his hands. It was, he supposed, the safest alternative with Mary off doing who the hell knew what. Elaina gave him a sharp nod and rose, the skirts she wore moving about her legs in a fashion he found most interesting. _Not up for a good time, eh, Kenway?_ Sarcasm reverberated around his skull as he picked up the map and tucked it away, finishing off the rum in the same quick motion.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, and went to her horse.

"Don't mention it," he muttered. _No, really. Don't. I'm off to convince a crew that don't believe in my 'foolish fantasies' that the gold you're payin' is worth the trouble of sailing out to that island. Don't suppose the day could improve none, could it?_

Turned out, the gold _was_ worth it, but what followed next was most certainly _not._


	2. Chapter 2

Pirates held dearly to their superstitions. There was a sort of order to the world, and some things just weren't right. Some things were pure bad luck, plain and simple. However, pirates also held near and dear the power of gold, and with his Quartermaster's support, the argument was surprisingly brief. Adéwalé had a certain fondness for the Assassins. One Edward didn't entirely understand if he were to tell the entire truth, but seeing as how it worked in his favor when it came to quelling the crew's resistance to the idea of a woman on board (temporarily!), he wasn't going to complain. Repairs were finished in short order, which eased some of his irritation. With the Jackdaw put back to rights, he was ready to get this little 'Mission of Trust' over and done with. _But it don't change nothing, Mary,_ he thought as if she could hear him. _I'm still going after the Observatory. And not for the Assassins._ For Elaina's part, she showed up on time. Without the horse. Good. At least he didn't have to explain just why a four-legged animal wasn't a good idea to have on the Jackdaw unless it was going to become food. Adé kindly took the saddlebags she'd thrown over her shoulder instead, and dropped them just inside the cabin door before he returned to the helm, her thanks following him.

While not outright hostile, the crew wasn't exactly rolling out a welcome mat, either. Elaina didn't mind. All she had to do was make it from point A to point B. They didn't have to like her in order to help her do so. When she'd arrived to the docks, evening was already creeping in on softening ebony wings flecked with stars. Edward waved her aboard and inclined his head toward the cabin in meaning. She arched an eyebrow at him in question. He gave her one right back.

"Rather stay below with the crew than the Captain, then?" A man coiling rope near the rail, arms corded with muscle, gave her a look she could only label a leer, and she tried not to sigh. Great. Pirates. Everyone knew the stories. They were liars, cheaters, ruthless murderers of innocents and anyone who happened to be in their way. Men without honor. Maybe even without souls. And they stank. Sure, the prospect of adventure intrigued even the most proper London Lady, but in actual practice? From what she'd seen in her time in the West Indies and the Gulf, the stories weren't that far off. And she had to trust these men, however tentatively, with her life. _Lovely. Mary, I hope you know what you're doing,_ she thought, and turned her attention to Edward, who was watching her with something too much like amusement for comfort.

"You can always change your mind, lass," he said. He'd have to cough up the gold she'd given him, of course, but at least his crew could focus on other things. Like sailing the ship and _not_ staring at Elaina, who for some reason didn't look all that out of place with her long skirts.

"Don't get your hopes up, Captain," she replied. How odd that a pirate would be the safest mode of transportation. If anyone but Mary Read herself had given her the instructions, she would've laughed. Loudly.

At least these particular pirates appeared to be marginally cleaner than most of the others. Perhaps Edward Kenway had higher standards. Taking a tight grip on her reservations, she moved toward the cabin, aware of how closely he followed her. Whether to make her uncomfortable or offer a shield between herself and the crew on deck she wasn't entirely sure. The door closed behind them as Edward's Quartermaster called an order to the crew and the sails unfurled. Canvas flapped and began to swell in the breeze.

"You'll not be confined to the cabin," he said as if sensing the unspoken question. She hoped he didn't make a habit of doing that. "But stay out of the way," he warned. When she turned to look at him, there was a trace of amusement in her gray-green eyes. After all, her height ended where his chest began. But it only took one small pebble in the cogs of a well-oiled machine to throw everything off.

"Alright. I'll keep out from underfoot," she said. He noted once more how tightly she held to the shoulder strap of that satchel.

"No one will be snatching it out of your hands," he said. Although he'd be quite the liar if he didn't admit he was curious about what she'd taken. And what was in all this for her, exactly? Bit more to this story than she was telling, he supposed, but he wasn't interested in meddling further Assassin affairs. It was already treading the line between of separation he tried to keep betwixt himself and the Assassins. Wasn't as if they approved of him and his goal, after all. Not when they had that 'higher purpose' thing going on and he merely wanted to better his lot in life.

"It's not that," she said, a hint of irritation in her voice. "It's nothing."

"Clearly," he said dryly. She glared at him. The ship began to cut through the water to chase the open sea, something felt rather than seen. No going back now. Not unless one fancied a swim. Prying her fingers free, she held her hands out.

"They won't stop doing that," she said, the light accent in her voice growing slightly heavier as she stared at her shaking fingers like they personally offended her. Maybe they did. His eyes softened marginally.

"You're safe enough with me," he said. For the time being. The crew might cast her suggestive looks, complete with crude gestures and lewd comments, but not a one of them would harm her unless they wanted to incur the Captain's wrath. He'd been sure to stress upon them all the importance of delivering their 'cargo' _safely._ Edward absolutely did _not_ want to be explaining that one to Mary Read. _No_ thankyouverymuch.

"I know," she said, dropping her hands and taking a deep breath, casting her gaze around the cabin. Wasn't _him_ making her trembly, anyway. That much she knew. The furniture was heavy, the big round desk in the center cluttered with maps and papers, though the one hosting a model of the Jackdaw was pristine. What drew her attention more immediately, however, was the bed, and its rather...singular nature. Of course, what use did the Captain of a pirate ship have for more than one?

"Few things I can think of to settle those nerves," he said, a purr in his voice, which turned to a laugh as she rounded on him, quick as a cat. Complete with claws, he noted, as one hand rest on her hip not out of temper, but because there was a knife hidden there in the folds of her skirt. The temper was, however, in her eyes, hot and just as sharp as that blade surely was. Bother, she wasn't about to give him a speech about what a proper lady she was and how she'd never _dream_ of consorting with a lowly pirate, was she?

" _Captain_ Kenway," she began as he held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Easy, lass, easy," he said, unable to keep the chuckle out of his throat. "I won't be layin' an unwanted hand on you, neither." His choice of words didn't escape her. _Unwanted_ indeed.

"Good," she said. "I imagine the Captain needs both to operate. Unless you think you'd be better served with a hook?" He blinked.

"I don't know who started that right load of shite," he said. "But I've never seen a pirate with a hook for a hand, lass, and I've no intention of being the first."

"I have a name," she said testily. But she dropped her hand away from her hip.

"Aye, _Elaina,_ " he said, and the look he was giving her made her almost glad he'd been working on too much rum and a foul mood the day before. The combination, plus catching him off guard, had greatly reduced his opportunity for snappy comebacks. _It's only temporary,_ she reminded herself, and followed his gesture as he nodded to the corner, where a hammock was already strung. Call him vain (or just sane and mindful of his spine), but the Captain ought not be sleeping on the floor when there were other alternatives. Before she could even think about telling him _she'd_ likely be more comfortable on said floor, he said, "I'll be taking the high ground, as it were." Surprise flickered over her face and she appraised him anew. He, who had faced down enemies twice his size, elected not to shift uncomfortably.

"You don't have to do that," she said finally.

"I'm well aware of it," he responded. She hesitated, and he sighed.

"Thank you," she said. "That's...kind." And rather unexpected of a pirate, no doubt. He grunted in response. Gesturing to the saddlebags Adé had graciously dropped inside the door for her, he asked, "Is that really all you've got?" He was grateful she wasn't carting around the entirety of her life as nobility and expecting him to help her do it, but it surely seemed like light traveling for someone used to some semblance of luxury. She nodded.

"Yes."

"Would've thought different, for a noble. 'Specially a woman."

Elaina wondered why he bothered to point it out. Wasn't as if she was trying to hide the fact and indeed, her carriage alone would stand out from most of those who frequented the bars near the docks. Not to mention the neatness of her hands. Even the barmaids sported callouses, and though she was accustomed to work of a certain kind, it didn't involve leathery skin. Nobility, on the other hand, prized their softness.

"I don't need it," she said simply. "Won't save my life when it comes down to it." Things mattered little if you happened to value life more than mere objects. Clothes could be washed. The money hadn't mattered much, either, though it was nice to have now. Wisely electing not to mention that to a man whose entire life apparently revolved around gaining more wealth (what else drove a pirate, other than love for killing?), she gave the bed what could only be called a longing stare.

"Go on and get some rest then, Elaina," he said, humor sparkling in his eyes. She noted their color with interest, a sort of shifting blue that reminded her more of the ocean than sky. "We'll be there before you know it." He turned and left her to it, knowing she likely wouldn't settle if he stood there and stared like a loon. When he returned some hours later, the Jackdaw set on the quickest route to her little island, she was curled up, still dressed and so sound asleep he half-wondered if even the thunder of cannons would wake her. She seemed even smaller. More fragile. Particularly with her bare feet sneaking out from under the hem of her skirts as she had at least discarded her boots before collapsing on top of the sheets. He shook his head and rolled into the hammock. _Only my problem for a moment,_ he thought, squirming in an effort to get comfortable. She'd be far better off with the Assassins, anyway, and he could get back to the task at hand. Somewhere out there was the Sage, and Edward would find him. Then, the Observatory. Soon it would all be within reach. Soon.

* * *

The days passed more quickly than seemed fair, considering just how long the wait in Kingston felt. She kept her distance from the crew, though they quickly found she would not be bullied, and all were content to pretend the other didn't exist. She knew instinctively that if they sensed any additional weakness beyond her gender, even Edward would have his hands full trying to keep his men in line. So when the same large man who'd given her that look the first day she'd set foot on the Jackdaw came up behind her as she stood at the rail and positioned himself altogether uncomfortably close, Elaina was prepared. Edward, who'd had his back to them but appeared to have an uncanny sense for trouble (at least, on his own ship!), turned around just in time to see Hanson, whom he'd personally warned away from the woman, backpedal from the knife she'd not-so-delicately pressed to his crotch.

"I know it's valuable to _you_ ," she told him. "But is it really _necessary_ to work on a pirate ship? Can't row with it, can you?"

"No. Only the best for the Captain's Jackdaw," came Edward's voice, with the underlying threat of violence. One of the louder voices in the argument against their little errand, Hanson was of a mind that women aboard pirate ships were _worse_ than bad luck, if there was such a thing. Especially if they weren't providing...other services. Somehow, sex helped to balance out the curse they surely brought with them. How _that_ math worked, Edward had no idea. The snickers were worse than the jab, she suspected, and though he had dark looks for her whenever she was on deck, he left her alone thereafter.

Aside from Edward and Adé, the most friendly person on board was the cook. He'd told her his name several times, but seeing as his nose was missing, it was a challenge to understand and rather than make the poor sod repeat it for the tenth time, Elaina elected to pretend she'd gotten it, and nodded instead. When she asked Edward about him, the Captain only muttered something about it being an accident and busied himself at the helm, deterring further prying. The idea of slicing someone's nose off on accident was highly amusing, though the poor cook couldn't have thought so. His food suffered for it, too. She wouldn't dream of telling him such a thing, but the crew ribbed him regardless. Because it was so obvious he was unhappy, she made the effort to keep him company and listen to his stories, even if half of them were essentially lost in translation. Wasn't like she had much else to do on board, aside from admiring the ocean and highly appreciating the safety of being on open water and away from anyone wearing the Templar's ring. Which she did do. Quite often. Despite Edward's curiosity, he was bound and determined not to get drawn in any more than he already was, and so didn't ask many questions. She didn't volunteer, either.

What he did know was that she and her former fiance had traveled from England to the Gulf on what was meant to be a vacation. She'd fled from there with help from the Assassins, and was making a rather convoluted circle back to Scotland, where she'd be staying. Hopefully. When he questioned the wisdom of staying so close to England, she'd told him she hadn't much liked the idea of being forced to run away from _her_ home, but Scotland was a fine enough compromise. _Not my problem,_ he reminded himself repeatedly. He had his own idea of how to strike out at the Templars. They'd be arriving at the island in short order as the winds were favorable. To appease the crew and his own gnawing bloodlust, the plan was to then immediately hunt down the HMS Glory, a frigate who ought to be lurking in the same area. And, best of all, was rumored to be carrying a chest. One filled with gold, more than a frigate usually carried, as rumor said the schooner it had been guarding made the rather unfortunate acquaintance of some sharp rocks and sank quite rapidly as a result. A fine enough prize and well worth the effort of sailing that way.

If, of course, everything had gone to plan.

"Land-ho!" Came the look-out's shout, carrying clearly down to the deck. Indeed, there in the distance was a little speck that would soon grow into a small island. "Captain!" Came a second yell. Edward snatched up his own spyglass and looked. Land, yes. And smoke. A black and greasy stain rising against the sapphire sky and sea. Mary knew he was a capable sailor, and with Adé by his side it was nigh impossible to be lost. She wouldn't have told the Assassin meant to meet Elaina he or she would need a damned smoke signal for them to find the place.

"Elaina!" He barked her name and she immediately came from the cabin, his voice loud enough to be heard even with the door closed. Particularly when he was standing on top of it.

"What is it?" She came up the stairs as the atmosphere on deck tightened. He handed her the glass, and though she gave him a strange look and fumbled with it a moment, she looked, and frowned, confirming his suspicions. "Why would-"

"Sail ho! Three ships, Cap'n!"

Edward cursed. "Now we're in for it," he muttered. "Get ready, lads! Let's get moving!" He spun the wheel as Elaina handed the spyglass back to Adé, and the sails billowed as they picked up speed. "We'll circle 'round the island," he said by way of explanation. _See what that smoke is about before we face the enemy._ She went back to the rail and held tight to it, less so for balance and more out of worry. Smoke wasn't a good sign.

The Assassins would know better. As the British ships advanced, slicing through the water toward the Jackdaw like overgrown sharks, Edward guided them around the island, the wind slacking off slightly at the change in direction. The brig slowed. His grip tightened on the helm as Elaina's breath caught in her throat and she covered her mouth with one hand.

Run aground, gaping holes in the sides of the battered ship, the little brig blazed, fire dancing almost merrily along the planks. Footsteps marred the otherwise smooth sand around the bodies on the beach, where the few crew members selected to man the vessel had been executed. More had surely already been lost to the waves. But that wasn't what caught everyone's attention. Instead, the eye was immediately drawn to the crosstrees, and the robed man hanging there by the too-tight rope around his neck. _Assassin._ Blood darkened his once white robes and dripped to the deck below. Impossible though it was, Elaina imagined she could hear the sound, the soft hissing as it splattered into the flames. Dead, certainly, though not for long. "Ah, bloody fucking hell," Edward said. The fire was gnawing through the mast, already weakened by chainshot. Soon it would topple, and the man who ought to have been seeing his little 'errand' through to fruition would be given to the sea as well.

"They're gaining on us, Captain," Adé warned.

"Shite," he replied. More than likely, those three ships had something to do with the senseless murder laid out on that beach. It reeked of the Templars. "Elaina, get inside," he ordered, and she glanced at him over her shoulder, her face pale.

"He was here because he was going to help me," she said, her voice hardly carrying to him.

"Time to mourn him later, lass, now _get inside!_ Man the cannons, lads, let's give these fuckers something to worry about!" Funny, Elaina thought, watching his crew spring into action. She'd wondered what a brig needed so many cannons for. Overkill, surely? Now, she was glad they had them. Against the HMS Glory and the two brigs alongside her, though, how would they fare? Casting another glance at the gruesome scene, she took a deep breath and went to the cabin. It was in Edward's hands, now. He had quite a reputation. She hoped it was an accurate one.

As they swung around the island and its monument to death, Edward coaxed every last scrap of speed from his Jackdaw, racing to meet their pursuers in a move that might've been called stupid if anyone else had attempted it. But he wasn't anyone else, and the crew was ready to paint the decks red with English blood. He smiled grimly and abruptly spun the wheel, the Jackdaw jerking hard to the side and presenting the nearest brig with her side. They were ready. But so were the pirates. " _Fire!"_ The cannons roared, spitting hot iron and rage, racing over the water too fast for anyone to escape. The other brig's deck erupted in cascading splinters and screams before they could even get off a shot of their own.

 _Bring it on, fuckers._ Taking down a ship with a slim crew and a single Assassin would've been easy for anyone, let alone three fully equipped vessels flying the British flag. The bristling Jackdaw and her crew, however, was another story entirely, and the English were about to read the ending. They'd drink damnation with the rest, and once the battle was won and the prizes gathered, he could decide what the _hell_ to do now.

First, however, they had to win.

And as the HMS Glory made her move, Edward realized it might not be quite as easy as he'd hoped. _Damn._ Guns and cannons screamed back and forth across the water, and just like that, the battle was well and truly on.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I'm going to post chapters as I'm finished with them up to Chapter 5; then I'll continue writing ahead and post weekly instead, barring of course the usual things that delay such plans. Thanks to everybody who has read this thing. Reviews give me warm fuzzies. Hope you're having fun with the story thus far. I know I am! Please note locations etc may not be 100% true to the game going forward.

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" _Down to the drink with ye!"_

The shouts rang back and forth between the ships as the second brig veered off, badly damaged. The waves lapped greedily at the great rents torn down her length by well-aimed cannonballs, the mast already tilting sharply to the side thanks to a timely shot of chain. In no uncertain terms, it was doomed, and no longer a problem. Unlike...

"Coming in from behind, Kenway!"

" _Brace!_ "

Edward's voice roared over the din, and his crew ducked in perfect unison as the Jackdaw shuddered and groaned under the assault from the frigate's own cannons. While Glory's brigs hadn't had much of a chance against the Jackdaw, succeeding only in firing twice between them (and one missing entirely as their rudder went up in splinters), the larger frigate was lean, mean, and ready to take a bite out of the first ship she came across. Her sights, however, were dead on the Jackdaw, and there was no mistaking the cheers from the men on board for anything other than the sound of imminent victory. _Bloody wankers, you haven't won yet!_ Edward thought, scowling as he lurched to his feet and seized the wheel once more. His men scrambled to reload, and from the cries and blood smearing his own deck, he knew they weren't without injuries. "Hit them with the chain shot!" One of the younger members of his crew, a lad only just approaching his twentieth year, rushed to obey, fumbling with the heavy links as Edward set the Jackdaw to turning. Their sails were intact, the mast standing straight and proud as it ought, but it was all like to change in a moment's notice if they didn't disable the Glory before she managed to hit them again. His Jackdaw could take a blow, but they were already bruised, and he preferred not to come away bloody.

"Ready, Captain!" Came the somewhat strained, shaking voice of the lad manning the shot. _If he misses, I'll strangle the idiot myself,_ he thought, and cried "Fire!" in reply.

The cannons drowned out the thump of the chain shot leaving the barrel and the unique whistle of ball and chain hurling through the air at speed. The Glory's captain shrieked an order and she began to move, hoping to take the assault nose-on in hopes of evading most of the cannonfire and sliding just shy of the chain meant to stall her in the water. They were not successful. Cannonballs raked over flesh and wood and steel, sending men flying back into the water purely from the force of them. Heavy shot boomed. Timber shattered. " _Prepare to board!"_ Oh, no way in fucking hell were they going to simply sink the slimy bastards. No, they'd take the prize as he'd intended in the first place, and he'd find out if the Templar who'd ordered the take down of the Assassin's ship was on board. A fierce cheer more akin to a war cry rose from his decks, drowning out whatever hope the Glory's crew had but only a moment ago. Grappling hooks rattled in eager hands as the frigate slowed in the water, preparing to face the inevitable. Edward released the wheel and Adé caught it in seamless transition as he leapt up to the railing, waiting for the right moment. The two ships rubbed up against one another, the Jackdaw and her ram faring far better as loose planks were torn free and sent scattering into the ocean. The captain shouted frantic orders to his men as muskets began to pop and crack, releasing bullets wildly in hopes of hitting a target.

For the most part, they thudded into solid wood alone. Cutlasses rattled as they were drawn, grappling hooks thrown and the frigate, already beginning to list, lashed securely to her doom. Edward sprang from the rail, lithe as a tiger, the hidden blade releasing silently and finding its mark in the neck of an unlucky sailor fumbling with his own weapon. The scent of powder hung heavy in the air, smoke sticking stubbornly low in the absence of a breeze as the ocean stilled around them. Steel clanged as swords met and he worked his way through the battle on deck, his eyes on the Glory's captain, defending his position at the helm as if they might still somehow win and sail away. _Fat chance,_ Edward thought, and yanked a pistol free of the holster to fire upon a man foolish enough to charge him. The gun kicked in his hand, and he couldn't help but grin as his target collapsed, blood gushing from the ragged wound in his chest. Not much better than a fight where everything went as it ought. Leaping from the deck to the stairs, he side-stepped a sailor who'd already lost a hand to the battle, and lunged forward to engage the captain.

They exchanged blows, steel to steel, the shorter man struggling to use his speed against the larger pirate. Whoever he'd been expecting hadn't owned a hidden blade and indeed, his eyes went wide at the sight of the Assassin's robes Edward still wore.

"What—"

One quick parry turned vicious as he flicked the captain's cutlass out of his hand and drove the hidden blade home in the same movement. Choking on his own blood, the other man staggered a moment before collapsing to the deck. Edward crouched beside him, tuning out the victory whoop as the crew began to surrender, their last hope lost.

"Might as well start talking, mate," he said almost cheerfully, cleaning the blood from his weapons on the dying man's clothes.

"Curse you to the _depths_ you came from, Assassin scum," he said, the words half-strangled. Bloody spittle flecked his chin. Edward wisely kept out of range.

"Last moments ain't here yet," he said, choosing not to correct him. "You can tell me where the piece of Templar shite is that ordered the mess back there, or you can spend 'em screaming. Your choice." The Jackdaw's crew swarmed the deck and the cabin, taking all that was of value, and the captain's wild eyes searched his own a long moment before he gave in.

"I don't know," he gasped, and let out a cry as Edward reached for his bowie knife. "No, no, wait! I'm telling you the _truth_ , Assassin, I don't know. I was given assignment in Havana—I was to join their Order if I was successful." He had to pause, then, in order to gulp air. Or try to, rather, as he turned his head and spit blood instead. "Come to the island…kill the Assassin…take the incoming ship, take the woman, sink it, leave no evidence." Edward frowned to himself, turning the words over in his mind. They'd known. Somehow, the Templars had known they were coming. Not who, however, and that was their fatal mistake. Perhaps they'd been expecting a simple merchant ship. Far more likely than one belonging to pirates. What the _hell_ had she taken?

"So he ain't here, then," he mused aloud.

"No," the dying man replied. "And I cannot tell you…more." His breathing was growing more labored with each passing moment, and the pirate eyed him critically, assessing the truth of his words.

"The name of the one who set you on this foolish errand, then," he said. The captain began to cough, and between the ragged gasps he caught the name. _Frederick Ainsworth._ "Thanks, mate," he said, and put an end to his suffering with a quick slash of the hidden blade to his throat. Getting to his feet, he swept his gaze over the deck. From the cabin, two of his men hauled out the chest they'd been after in the first place. Nodding his approval to them as they began moving it to the Jackdaw, he looked over his ship and resisted the urge to sigh. She wouldn't be floundering by any means, but more repairs would have to be made before she was in perfect shape again. _Dammit_. At least the bit about the Glory's haul was still true. The small matter of _the rest of it,_ though… How had they found out where Elaina was headed? The information ought to have been in Assassin hands only. Ah, but they'd been betrayed once before, hadn't they? _Mister Duncan Walpole, at your service._ He snorted to himself as he vaulted to his own deck once more.

His arm twinged and he spared it a passing glance. Somebody had nicked him, sure enough. Shrugging off the minor cut, he gestured to Adé. His crew came rushing back to the Jackdaw as the order to release was called in his Quartermaster's distinctive voice. Ropes were cut free and grappling hooks reeled in and stowed while he took stock of their injuries and number. Luckily no one was too severely wounded, though several men required bandaging. And… He turned around, looking for their cook, Alvaro, who ought to have been on deck helping to stitch wounds where necessary (the man was no talented healer, but he had a steady enough hand) and taking supplies down to the Galley where they could be stowed and eaten later.

"Morgan," he said, barking the name of a tall man bearing two identical scars crisscrossing his chest, forming a near-perfect X. His brown hair fell into his eyes as he straightened away from the cannon he'd been caring for.

"Aye, Captain?"

"Where's Alvaro?"

Silence reigned over the deck a moment before someone—ah, Norris—cleared his throat nervously.

"Ah, well, see 'ere, Cap'n, you know he 'as a bad 'abit of bein' on deck when he shouldn't," the slender pirate began.

"The daft fucker," Hanson muttered, slinging a coil of rope over his shoulder. Edward reigned in his impatience.

"Are you telling me…?" the blonde gestured at the Glory, who was leaning ever further to the side now that the Jackdaw was no longer supporting her and beginning to ease free. Blood darkened the water and the sharp fins of sharks were already surfacing here and there.

"Aye," the three of them confirmed in near-unison. He cursed and wished for something to throw. After all the trouble he'd gone to _getting_ that man…even if he _had_ accidentally cut his nose off, the food was better than nothing! Likely not as good as it had been before he had full use of that nose, but still!

Maybe if Caroline hadn't taught him to appreciate some of the finer things in life—like a decent meal—he wouldn't have minded so much.

"We'll find another, lads," he said, keeping the weariness from his voice. They all remembered what it was like to be without a cook. "And I _won't_ be letting Mathison touch the Galley this time, neither." Laughter rose up as the younger man ducked his head, green eyes sheepish. While he might've _wanted_ to be a cook, truth was he was the farthest thing from it. And if Edward hadn't walked in when he had, the Jackdaw might have been sporting a sizeable fire.

And then a Mathison-shaped hole where he would've tossed the fool right on out. Now there was a repair he wouldn't have minded making. Letting out a breath, he pushed his hair out of his eyes and took the stairs two at a time to reach Adé.

"Where to, Captain?" the Quartermaster asked.

"Ought to wash my hands of it," he muttered in response.

"Edward," Adé warned, clear rebuke in his tone.

"Aye, I know," he said, though he wasn't happy about it in the slightest. "I know." Wouldn't be right to dump the woman in the nearest city and hope she could find someone trustworthy on her own. Someone, somewhere, had dropped the ball and if the Templars had known about the island, what else did they know?

Not about his involvement. A small comfort. He didn't want them chasing him any harder than they already were. Such things would only make it more difficult to find the Sage first. But it looked as if that was going to have to wait a little while longer. _Again._ The crew would want answers, considering it was obvious enough their 'quick' and 'temporary' resident wouldn't be leaving on that burning ship. So… _Now what?_ A question for his guest, really. "Get us out of here, Adé," he said, turning back toward the stairs. "Maybe she's got herself a backup plan." Wasn't wrong to hope, right? He went into the cabin as Adé called an order to the crew to loose the sails, and the Jackdaw found the slightest breath of air to fill them. He wasn't quite sure what he'd find. Noble women tended to be more delicate than others, didn't they? _Caroline wasn't. Oh, shut up,_ he growled inwardly, and shoved open the door. Elaina quit pacing as he stepped inside, and pinned him with the storm in her eyes.

"Well?" she asked. Impossible to pace while the cannons were firing and the ship rocking to and fro as she fought the waves and other vessels, but the moment the Jackdaw settled, she'd unfolded herself from the corner and hadn't stopped until the door opened.

"No Templars on that ship," he said, and watched her run her fingers through her hair.

"I don't even know his name," she said, her voice catching on the words.

"Not your fault, lass, what happened here," he told her.

"I know," she said, though it was hard to feel that way. Being an Assassin was dangerous by its very nature. But he hadn't been out on some dangerous contract. All he was supposed to do was pick her up and help her finish the journey to Scotland. "How did they know?" She didn't expect an answer, and he shrugged in response. She'd put the pieces together, too. Good. Mary wouldn't have told someone she didn't trust. Was it a problem within the Assassins? Had a message been intercepted? No way to know without questioning whomever had sent the frigate to the island.

"Got the name of the man who ordered it," he said, and she blinked. Ah. He'd done it again.

"Until we know what happened, I'm...I'm not safe anywhere, unless it's with Mary," she said, disbelief filtering into her voice as she considered the magnitude of it. She couldn't simply go back to Kingston. If someone within the Assassins was leaking information, finding and trusting any one of them might be fatal.

"No," he agreed unhappily. "I can look into finding you a safe place to stay," he began, but she was already shaking her head. Grand. Just what he'd been hoping for.

"I'm safest with you, if you'll have me," she said. "Unless they knew you were coming."

Drat.

"They didn't," he said.

"And now they won't," she said. He wouldn't be standing there if they hadn't won. "I can be useful. Perhaps I can assist your cook in the kitchen? If he won't take offense." She rather doubted he would since he'd been friendly enough with her. The look on Edward's face, however gave her pause. "You think he would?"

The silence stretched an uncomfortable moment as he rubbed at the back of his neck. Well. There was a partial solution to the crew's inevitable argument. "You can cook, then, can you?" he asked. Just to be sure. She inclined her head.

"I can." _I can pull my own weight,_ she thought. Figuring this out was possible, so long as he didn't drop her off somewhere alone. She wasn't sure she could quite manage _that._

"Alright," he said grudgingly. "Seems Alvaro is with us no longer, so you needn't concern yourself with his feelings." She blinked. Oh. So that's what his name was.

"What? What was he doing on deck?" Strange to think the man she'd spent the better part of the week listening to, the Spanish accent and lack of nose making him so difficult to understand, was gone. Just like that.

"Hell if I know," he said, irritation clear on his face. That's how the ninny lost his nose in the first place! Noting the way her eyes were drawn to his arm, he looked down. The blade had, likely by pure accident, found the gap between the bracers covering his forearm and the ones shielding the upper. It made for a ragged little slice in the crook of his elbow, but it wasn't deep enough to be serious.

"You're injured," she said, coming around the desk toward him.

"Hardly," he said, but allowed her to take his arm regardless.

"I can help with things like this, too," she said, using the slice in the shirt to investigate the wound.

"Not like it needs stitches, lass," he said, but before he could continue, her fingers brushed his skin, and silver light glimmered where she'd touched. Elaina took a step back as he jerked his arm close for inspection, shock filtering into his eyes.

The cut was gone.

"What was _that?_ " he demanded, searching her face for an answer.

 _What the fuck just happened?_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** You may notice I've chosen to spell whiskey without the "e." It's not a typo, but homage to the fact that "whiskey" with an E refers to the American made or Irish drink, while "whisky" indicates the Scottish one. (Always fun finding things while researching, hah!) Therefore, I thought it was fitting and decided to keep it. Closing in on Chapter Five! Shout-out to HawksFan1988, who has read and commented everything thus far. You're great! Thank you.

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"You said _help,_ not...not…" He gestured between them as if that explained the oddity he'd just witnessed. And experienced, for that matter. Elaina glared at him.

"Sure, it's perfectly natural for the Assassins to have a 'Sense,'" she said drawing air-quotes around the word. "But god forbid anybody else does!"  
"That ain't the same thing!" he argued. The Sense allowed him to see more, to hear more, not...whatever the hell she'd just done! It dawned on him then that the Templars had another reason to want her, besides the stolen documents.

"Like hell it isn't!"

This woman was going to be the death of him. He inspected his arm once more, prodding at the skin as if it might suddenly burst open and begin bleeding again. Talk about the _gotcha!_ moment of all fucking _gotchas._ But nothing happened. The only indication he'd been hurt in the first place was the blood darkening the gash in the sleeve.

"How's it possible?" he asked, giving her a wary stare over said sleeve. She shrugged in a helpless gesture.

"I have no idea. How's it possible you can see things in a kind of 'shimmering?'" she asked, repeating the words Mary had once told him. He scowled.

"Alright," he said grudgingly. Once he'd realized it was not, in fact, related to his dreaming, well… So she had a point. A pointy one indeed. " _Don't_ be showin' that off to the crew," he said, warning clear and sharp in his voice. She was still an inconvenience and a token of bad luck in their eyes. Last thing he needed was for them to start seeing a pile of gold where a person was standing.

He trusted his men, of course, but they were _pirates_. And they acted like it. He was the Captain, and he'd never had even a whiff of mutiny. They'd not challenge him outright. It'd be pushing the limit, though, especially as they tended to grow restless as a group when he showed less interest in pirating and more in finding the Observatory. A fine line to walk. _More like a plank_ , he mused, unable to resist scrubbing at the spot on his arm again. Just in case.

"I can care for wounds the normal way," she told him. Her hands were shaking again, he noticed. "It's just...difficult to control it sometimes. I haven't had a lot of practice." Showing off that particular skill to _everybody_ wouldn't be wise. And it was quite a lot to trust him with. Particularly on accident.

"They teach nobles those things, now, do they?" he asked.

"No," she said. The silence stretched as he watched her avoid his eyes.

"Alright," he said finally. "But if you're going to help, you best be finding a way to control your…'Talent.'" Stitches were good enough for them, anyway. Usually haphazard and not particularly neat ones for that matter. It made for interesting scars.

"I will," she said, the steel note of determination in her voice.

"Templars know about it?"

"Yes."

"Coulda told me."

"Why?"

Another pointy point. Why did she have so many of those. Would it have made a difference?

No, not really. Not when his discomfort for being handed a duty fit for an Assassin, not a pirate, was so obvious. All he'd wanted to do was drop her off. Now he was, at minimum, stuck with her until they found Mary. He was reluctant to go hunting this 'Frederick Ainsworth' on his own, and he noted she didn't ask or suggest it either. _Good._

"Until we find her and clear up this mess, you'll stay on," he said. The relief in her eyes was unmistakable. Maybe she thought he really _would_ kick her off at the nearest port.

"Thank you," she said.

"Don't thank me yet," he advised. "You'll be earning your stay well enough." Which reminded him of the gold she'd paid in order to get from 'here' to 'there.' _Technically_ he'd held up his end… As if Elaina could see the wheels turning in his little pirate brain, she shook her head.

"Isn't your fault someone told them where I'd be," she said. "May as well keep the money. Besides, you haven't tasted the food yet." He coughed and caught himself before he began rubbing at his neck again.

"Call it a deposit against my good health, then," he said dryly, and turned to step back on deck and deal with the argument he was likely to face.

Predictably, the crew was largely displeased with the notion. He'd reminded them yet again that Mathison was the closest thing they had to another cook as Alvaro had staunchly refused to take on helpers (they interfered with his _process!_ ) and if they wanted to eat something other than raw fish, a good bit of sucking it up was in order. He also made it clear as the sky above that she was well within her rights to cut off any bits that came a'wandering too close, and he'd be right pissed off if any of them made into the food. He was _not_ a fan of spotted dick, _thankyouverymuch._ Especially not in a stew. Unfortunately for him, that meant the hammock would be staying.

He did not much like the hammock.

Sure, sailors tended to get used to the things, especially below in the crew's quarters. But that was part of being Captain! He got a _bed,_ dammit! He couldn't ask Elaina to stay below with the men as that was an obvious recipe for disaster, nor did he feel right about suggesting-even very politely!-that she trade him places. Mostly because he knew she likely would. Then he'd really feel like a right sorry lout.

Luckily, the food was good. Better than good, actually. When he asked her where she'd learned, she told him it was a skill required of all young ladies of her station as affording a cook wasn't always possible. However, she'd developed a real liking for it, and it showed despite the limited options available to her. Unluckily, there was no sign of Mary, high or low. Or the Princess, and oh, didn't that just figure? What she was doing he had no idea, but whenever they docked, he nosed around in search of the pirate Kidd, turning over all the leaves he could find and coming up empty handed. The arrangement with Elaina worked well enough seeing as he hadn't come across any spectacular tips about another cook, either, and they maintained their agreement that until Mary showed, she was safest on the Jackdaw, where no Templar in his right mind would think to look.

Then again, what Templars were in their right mind to begin with? Hah, _now_ who had the pointy points?

Even so, it didn't much please him to have the situation dropped into his lap like a hot potato with no way to be rid of it without putting Mary on his bad side in the worst of ways. Not to mention living with himself after the fact knowing he'd put a mostly defenseless woman in danger on purpose just because he'd rather things go back to 'normal.' Though he supposed not much was normal anymore in the first place. Hadn't been for a long time. He argued her into taking half of her gold back, to boot. She'd put up a fight, but as he pointed out to her, she was on a pirate ship. Feeding pirates. Sometimes, patching up said pirates, although the opportunity for that hadn't yet come. The few prizes they'd taken had been lightly armed and gone down easily. In any case, it meant if they were caught, she'd be viewed as a pirate, too. She told him she'd tell whoever asked they'd made her do it and get off just fine aside from alerting every Templar imbecile in the vicinity, which made him laugh as it was probably true. Still, he'd won. With the money she procured herself a book filled with blank pages and another change of clothes. While he kept waiting for her to melt in the heat, she never did.

Mostly because she wasn't weighed down with the proper petticoats and other assorted garments 'proper' ladies ought to wear. The kitchen did get what she felt was unnecessarily hot, however, and she'd taken to tying up her hair to keep it off her neck and, when it was truly awful, gathering up her blouse in a knot just under her breasts to garner as much fresh air as possible. It was a look she didn't take outside the Galley, however. Because she wasn't Alvaro and didn't have the same hang-ups—that is to say, a _process!_ —two of the younger lads, Javier and Lee, took to her rather quickly and helped wherever possible, learning the basics a little at a time. When she was gone, she reasoned, Edward wouldn't be left entirely without _someone_ who knew _something_ about boiling water. He and his Jackdaw could scrape by until they found another Alvaro. Hopefully with his nose attached this time.

In her free time, such as it was, she sketched, something she'd missed doing as her time had been rather occupied with other minor details such as running for her life. The routine they fell into was nice, she realized, and what an odd notion it was! To be borderline _comfortable_ on a pirate ship? Oh, but her mother would have a fit. She probably already had. Several of them. Elaina pushed the thoughts away in favor of focusing on the present. None of that was helpful now. All she had to do was wait for Mary to surface. That was all. The crew ate the food and maintained their stubborn distance, not entirely displeased with her presence anymore but not welcoming it, either. Whatever Edward said to them did keep wandering hands mostly to themselves, which she appreciated immensely. _It's only temporary,_ she told herself over and over. _I won't be on the run forever._ Nor sailing around on a pirate's ship, the oddest safe haven in the seven seas.

The both of them kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting for a sign. Something. _Anything._ And what did they receive in return?

Nothing.

Docked at a little no-name island, the village hardly worthy of being called much else as it consisted mostly of small houses in various states of disrepair sprawling down to the water's edge in decaying building blocks, Edward sank deeper into his rum. The place may not have a name, but it had a bar. And on the waterfront itself, a bustling arms trade, which likely kept it afloat in the first place since pirates of all kinds could slide on in, stock up on mortars, shot and the like, get a drink, and slip right back out again. Where these people got their supply, he didn't know, and didn't much care. Convenient, wasn't it? Except for the fact all was still silent on the Mary front. And the Sage front. And pretty much all the other fronts he cared about.

The crew, however, was in high enough spirits thanks to the last Spanish merchant they'd taken. Better than even he hoped for, really, and he allowed their mood to bolster his own as those whose duties were done, however temporarily, swarmed the place and the rum began to flow more freely. From his strategic position near the door, he caught the sound of voices not quite like those around him, and tilted his head to listen in.

"Are we ever going to get off this island?" the first complained. Edward spotted him then, a surly sailor obviously used to the finer things. He was staring darkly into his drink, the harsh planes of his face made harsher by malnutrition and the blazing sun. His companion, a man of lighter stature and darker skin, clapped him on the back.

"'Course we are! Another ship'll come in for us," he said, his thicker accent making his words harder to decipher in the noise of the suddenly bustling bar. "I'm sure of it!"

"That's what you've said for the past three weeks," he grumbled in reply.

"Trust me, we aren't missing much," his friend advised, looking around conspiratorially as if everyone in the room might pause their conversation to eavesdrop. "Wouldn't have wanted to be in Havana this past month anyway. Ainsworth is out to make a name for himself, and you know who'd be doing all the grunt work!"

Ah. They weren't pirates, then, necessarily. Likely shipwrecked (or scuttled) and stranded for the time being. Looking for a way out that suited their delicate English sensibilities, no doubt. That name, though. _That. Name._ He shifted, taking another drink to better disguise the movement, and tuned in closer.

"True, been a right pain in the arse," the larger man agreed. "But startin' to think anything is better than...this."

"You've already forgotten what he did to…" The noise level spiked as one of the pirates—not one of his, he noted—stumbled against another man and started grappling with him. The two tumbled outside with their minor scuffle, leaving him with only scraps of speech to piece together. Something about a slow messenger losing the better part of his left hand as punishment for the delay. Slowly. And with, if he heard right, great pleasure on Ainsworth's part. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Aye, sounded like a Templar sort, and the kind who'd be just fine with the captain of his chosen mercenary ship putting on display such as that. If he got his hands on Elaina… Edward shook his head to clear it and took another drink instead of pursuing that particular thought. It'd be fine. Just. Fine.

As if his silent mention had summoned her, he glanced at the door just as she stepped through it. He arched an eyebrow at her in both surprise and question. She liked to keep her distance whenever they docked, both for her safety and because the privacy of the relatively quiet ship was rare. Stepping up beside him, she surprised him again by leaning forward over the bar to catch the barkeep's attention.

"Do you have whisky?" she asked the harried man behind the counter. He nodded once and reached for the appropriate bottle.

" _Whisky?_ That ain't no drink for a woman! Why don't you try some sugarwater?" Hanson's voice practically clawed at the ceiling with its vehemence, and Elaina looked down the bar at him. _Sugarwater?_ At least he hadn't insulted tea. Then they'd _really_ have a problem.

"But then what would be left for you to drink?" she asked him, her voice as sweet as the mentioned drink. The bartender, caring naught for what the other thought of their drink choices so long as someone paid, slapped the glass down in front of her. She wasn't in the mood to snark back and forth with the big man. All she wanted was a damn drink. Too much time spent thinking. Worrying. Wondering. Was it took much to ask for it all to shove off for a little while?

"Listen here," he began, pushing away from his place and advancing toward her. Edward shot him a look over her head. Why was it every time he settled in for a good brood, somebody had to muck it up?

"I'd bet a week's take that it's more like to choke you as not," he said stubbornly.

"You don't want to take that bet," she said dryly, picking up the glass.

"Don't I?"

"Why would I come in here and order something I can't down?"

"Because you're wantin' to prove you're better than us," he sneered in response. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Because you don't know your _place._ " Before Edward could get over how much he wanted to heave a sigh and slap the larger man upside the head, she fired back.

"Really? And where would my place be? Under _you_ , I imagine? Well, no thanks. I don't enjoy the view from here. It won't get any better down there. And I'll tell you something else, Hanson. _Your_ place is going to be under the table if you want to get serious about this." She wiggled the glass at him in meaning, the amber liquid sliding from side to side in an almost hypnotic movement. Edward snorted into his rum.

"Sure that's wise, lass?" he muttered at her. Elaina shot him a grin over her shoulder.

"You're on," Hanson growled, and gestured at the barkeep, who obligingly began pouring another. The crew began to gather around them, elbowing one another and snickering to themselves. One way or another, this was going to be good. Edward sat back on his stool as they looked to him. Downing the remainder of his rum, he waved for another, and shrugged.

"If you're sure," he told Elaina. What was he going to do, haul her back to the Jackdaw by her skirt? Okay, so that was somewhat appealing for _other_ reasons, but it surely would do her no favors.

"Watch me," she replied, and threw back the first glass in unison with the big pirate. Oh. Yes. He was going _down._

* * *

"Right, right, but how the _fuck_ does someone your size drink that much?" Edward demanded. She laughed, and kept laughing as she tried to regain her composure.

"Shh," she told him. "It's a secret." He watched as Morgan, Mathison, _and_ Norris struggled to pick Hanson up from where he had, indeed, fallen under the bar.

"Nooo," he said, drawing out the word. The raucous laughter continued on in the absence of the contest as the moon crept higher in the sky, leaving a trail of silver light behind. "Come now," he said, nudging her shoulder with his. She got up and steadied herself against the bar as the room spun.

"Whoa," she said.

"Alright, lass, careful," he said on a laugh, easing off of his own perch. "Enough for one night."

"Enough for… _several_ nights," she told him, and hiccuped. He smirked.

"Aye, that too. Not sure it was wise of me to allow that display," he mused as they left the bar and the lively party behind. Oh, yes, she'd certainly won over some of the crew in thoroughly trouncing Hanson, but he was likely to be an even dearer enemy now. Then again, was the gain of a few friends worth it considering he'd likely never have accepted her presence? Perhaps.

"Captain knows best," she said, and he caught her when she staggered, laughing. Just because she _could_ drink her body weight (or so it seemed!) in a drink so strong didn't mean it came without the usual side-effects.

"Tell me," he cajoled, his hands warm at her waist. Had to be something to it! She did have the presence of mind to look around before responding.

"Has to do with the Talent," she told him. "Burns it off somethin' fierce. Discovered it on accident a while back. But…wasn't gonna tell _him_ that. Flybitten horn-beast that he is."

"Oh, jaysus," he said, near-choking on a laugh. "Horn-beast, aye. Going to have to keep that one." If Hanson wasn't so good on deck…

"It's yours," she said. "Keep it safe." (Although not secret.) Looking at him, the moon lightening the color of his hair, she noted again how interesting his eyes were.

And how he smelled of spices and the sea, which was a more appealing combination than she would've thought. They leaned into each other, partly out of necessity and partly due to the heat pooling between them. He cupped her face in one hand, noting almost distantly how soft her skin was in comparison to his own.

"Ought not to take advantage of you," he said. When had they gotten so close to one another? Her lips curved in a smile.

"I think it'd be the other way around at the moment," she replied. Wasn't proper, really, to be standing there like that with him…but what was 'proper' anymore? Proper would've been a husband who _didn't_ lie and _wasn't_ part of some Order who wanted to take over everything for the 'good' of the people. _And,_ she told herself, _if you wanted to worry about what was proper, you maybe shouldn't have gone for the whisky. Or stolen a bunch of Templar documents and run away. Or gotten on a pirate ship._ Decisions, decisions. She took a breath, approximately two seconds away from saying _hang it all_ and kissing him for no other reason than because she wanted to, when several drunken sailors staggered into the street not far from them, shouting and carrying on about something she couldn't quite decipher. They eased back from one another, though perhaps a bit reluctantly, mutually agreeing the moment was gone.

The heat in his gaze, though, reflected in hers, had been real. _That wouldn't have been a wise decision,_ she thought. Probably. He began talking as they walked back to the ship, the rum having loosened his tongue, and she smiled slightly to herself as he went off on a tangent about the Jackdaw's cannons. _Then again…the best choices aren't always the wisest._


	5. Chapter 5

"Wasn't s'posed to be like this, you know."

His voice was hardly more than a mutter, and Elaina tilted her head to look at him. Since he was sprawled in the hammock, looking more like a pirate cocoon than a fierce warrior of the waves, she had to try harder than normal not to laugh.

"It wasn't?" she asked, hesitant to assume she knew exactly what he was talking about. The two of them didn't often share in loads of conversation, after all, though he was polite enough. He grunted and tried to roll over, succeeding in only setting his cocoon to swaying.

"No. I was…I _am_ going to be a man of means," he grumbled to the wall. "Of _quality._ " The silence stretched a moment as she considered that. "Don' laugh," he told her, slurring the words slightly. It did sound ridiculous, though, didn't it? A pirate wanting something more than open water and easy pickings? Yes. Oh, gods. _Yes._

"I'm not laughing," she objected, flipping over to her side to better hear him. "Doesn't sound all that strange."

"Aye, aye, not to _you_ maybe. You're…odd."

Elaina rolled her eyes and said with a laugh, "Oh, thanks for that, then."

You know what I meant." He gave up on moving, fairly certain it was a lost cause now.

"Do I?"

"Aye, I think you do," he said, a growl in his voice. "You had everything, didn't you?" For all the time she'd spent on the ship and in his company, he didn't know that much about her. Everything simply felt darker these days, what with the repeated dead ends in his hunt for the Princess and the only lead to the Observatory. It wasn't doing wonders for his sense of humor or his usual way with the ladies. The letter...pain thumped in his chest along with his heartbeat. No, the letter he'd received a little while back hadn't improved things. And why wasn't the rum _helping?_ She was quiet for a long moment and he had to wonder if she'd dropped off to sleep. Talent or no, that was a _lot_ of whisky, even in his esteemed pirate opinion.

"I guess that depends on your view of everything," she said finally, her voice quiet.

"Don't seem much like you to come to the bar," he said, changing the subject.

"Met you at one, didn't I?"

He snorted. "Aye, but you weren't challenging me to a drinking contest, neither."

"He started it," she argued, then paused. "You're right." _'Course I am,_ he thought, grumbling inwardly. "Don't you ever just want the world to stop spinning for a while?" she asked softly. "So you can leave your thoughts somewhere else and just...quit worrying? Even if only for a few moments."

"Don't everyone?" he replied almost without meaning to, and scowled to himself in the darkness. Rum never was helpful at keeping his mouth shut. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"I suppose," she said. Staring up at the ceiling, she fell quiet a moment, lost in her own thoughts. "Everything changed so quickly. I feel I'm still trying to catch up. One moment I'm going to marry this man, improve our station and maybe...maybe even be happy with him." The doubt in her tone spoke well enough on its own as to whether or not it would've been true. Even if he hadn't turned out to be a Templar. "The next, I'm helping an injured Assassin and suddenly there's a world and a war I never knew about happening all around, and of course I'm square in the middle of it. Now I'm working on a damn pirate ship and the strangest thing is, I feel more comfortable here than I have anywhere else."

A dangerous feeling, considering it wouldn't last long. Despite the attitude of the crew (which perhaps had altered at least somewhat, if she were to be hopeful), the Jackdaw was a safe place. She knew what her duties were, how to perform them, and the routine was exactly what she needed to settle her mind and the fear always lurking just under her breastbone that the Templars would somehow find out she was with the infamous Edward Kenway and come hunting him harder than before. Whatever his relationship with Mary, he didn't deserve, and most certainly didn't want, to be drawn in any deeper than he already was.

"You're not missing the noble life, then?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

"Not really," she said. "Honestly, it felt natural to leave it. Like it was never mine in the first place." Hence why it'd been so easy to leave most of those 'proper' trappings behind at the drop of a hat, so to speak. Those duties hadn't fallen to her until later, and by then she hadn't exactly been welcoming of them anyway.

Well, he knew what that felt like, didn't he? Except in reverse. He could still recall with crystal clarity the moment he'd stepped foot onto his parent's farm as an employee, and knew he wanted something so much more. Knew he was destined for more. Had to be. This couldn't be all. _Wasn_ 't, he reminded himself. No, he hadn't quite reached his goal just yet, but neither was he doomed to life as a sheep farmer. That was something, wasn't it? Sure, if one didn't consider those left behind. He'd been wrong, then, hadn't he? She _was_ afraid. Any normal person ought to be. Even a noble.

"How did you come to be a pirate?" she asked. "Wasn't what you always wanted, surely?"

"No," he said. "Wasn't." Nearly all he had now, though. "Started as a Privateer. But pirates have far more luck with the ladies." She could practically _hear_ the smirk in his voice.

"I doubt you've ever had trouble with women, Edward Kenway," she said dryly. Right again, she was. Except perhaps for recently. "Where's home? Even a pirate has to come from somewhere."

"Why, the Jackdaw, of course," he said. Elaina shot him a look he couldn't see in the darkness.

"You know what I meant."

"Aye," he said on a sigh. The ocean rushed and whispered around the quiet ship, her own natural creaks and shifts hardly noticeable now. "Bristol," he said after the brief pause. So the pirate, a man determined to be someone of quality, had a home after all. At least he hadn't made some crack about Atlantis. Or Neverland. She might've had to get up to swat him, then.

"Anyone waiting for you there?" she asked, curious. Not all Privateers turned to pirating, did they? Had to be another reason he'd chosen that path for himself. Unless it truly was simple greed. But she didn't quite believe that.

"No longer," he said. She was quiet, encouraging him to continue. "Was married," he said gruffly. "Before I left home." And everything else, behind.

"Ah," Elaina said, the sound full of understanding. He hadn't wanted to provide a better life only for himself.

"She left me some time ago," he said. "Now she's gone." Familiar pain shivered through his heart. Yes, his beloved was dead, and no amount of re-reading that god damned letter changed the sharpness of the words.

"I'm sorry," Elaina told him gently. That, too, explained the hesitation in the moment they'd shared on the street. He was hurting still, though he may not have wanted to her to know it.

"She gave up on me," he replied, his voice rough. But now she'd never see the life he'd imagined for them. Never see him as he'd described to her once, on the deck of a grand ship—his very own Jackdaw—with all the gold and riches they could ever have wanted for.

"But you loved her anyway," she said.

"'Course I did," he said. Beautiful Caroline, who'd somehow loved him, too…and who had walked away when he needed her the most. "Of course I did," he repeated more quietly. "You've no one waiting in Scotland for you?" Why hadn't he asked her that before? Ah, because he'd planned on shooing her out the door into Assassin arms and promptly forgetting the whole matter.

"No," she answered, her voice nearly lost to the soothing sound of the ocean. "No, I don't. My loved ones are gone, too." Didn't seem fair to skate around the question when he'd answered hers well enough. He angled his head, cushioning it on his arm. Really? All of them? Wasn't her mother alive, at least, or father? Noble women didn't usually make their own marriage arrangements...notable exceptions excluded, of course... There was a story there, too, he sensed. "I think she'll be proud of you," she said suddenly, before he could begin tugging that particular line of questioning. "Such determination is an admirable quality. She knew you loved her, didn't she? And that you only wanted something more for you both?"

He nearly flinched, and let out another sigh in response. Doubtful Caroline would've ever seen his dogged dedication and perhaps even borderline obsession with his goals as anything to be proud of. She hadn't wanted him to go in the first place. But he had, and he hadn't come back. Still, rather than stir anger, her words soothed some of the ragged edges in his chest. "Aye, lass," he murmured. "Reckon she knew that much." Had to have, didn't she? He would've done anything for her. Anything…except stay. Anything except forcing her to live his unwanted life. With the rum dulling his senses and at long last wrapping him in heady warmth, he nearly missed her whisper.

"Thank you, Edward. For everything."

"Not a worry, lass," he mumbled, though it most certainly was—or had been. "I'll be seeing you through safely."

Not quite a promise. But close enough.

* * *

Thanks to a deliciously juicy rumor about a Spanish merchant ship heavily laden with gold and other valuable treasures, the Jackdaw and her Captain set to roaming the high seas once again not two days later. For those two days, the weather held beautifully. On the third, gray clouds were noticed clinging ominously to the horizon and although both Edward and Ade kept a weather eye on them, it soon became obvious the storm would not be outrun. Even as the thought crossed his mind, silently exchanged with his Quartermaster courtesy of a look, the glittering sapphire water around them began to darken as if with temper. The wind picked up, capping each wave with a white tuft of displeased foam.

"Gods willing, this squall won't sink our prey," Edward said. Ade nodded an agreement. The islands in the immediate area were misleading safe havens, their little coves and inlets like welcoming arms to a ship seeking escape from the battering waves. Except few but the most experienced sailors would ever make it to those alluring shelters as sharp and deadly rocks lurked far too close to the surface for comfort. On a good day the waters were clear enough to see down to the bottom, and view the bones of those unfortunate vessels. Seeing no reason to allow the ocean to pummel his Jackdaw when he was in fact familiar with the nearest island and it's deep, quiet cove, Edward deftly spun the wheel as Ade called orders to the crew. Sunlight fought valiantly to break through the haze and failed as the mist thickened. Timber shivered as wind leaned into the ship, determined to shove the obstacle aside. Men scrambled to secure the lines and sails as the first drops of rain began to fall from the swollen clouds.

In the Galley, Elaina secured all which could be tied down. The boys had taught her well enough (and quickly!), thankfully, since things could get quite bumpy indeed in a fight or a storm. Who knew how far one pot could slide? Ah, that's right. She did! Lucky it was a pot, for that matter, and not something more...substantial. Satisfied with the work and feeling the ocean practically snarl beneath the ship, she left the Galley and stepped into coordinated madness. The crew was a well-oiled machine in many respects and storms were no different. The rain began pouring in earnest as she stood there, watching. Her skin tingled, the air charged with the promise of lightning. Glancing at the helm, she spotted him there, flaxen hair damp with mist and a fierce grin on his face. Elaina committed the image to memory, knowing she'd want to sketch him later. Those blank pages were slowly filling. He needn't ever know how many were of his face. Turning toward the cabin as the wind shrieked like a starving animal losing sight of its prey, she paused as another sort of sound, just as awful, split the air.

A rope had snapped clean of its mooring. Warning cries rang out. Lee sprang after it, his dark hair already drenched and determination brightening his hazel eyes. He slipped on the wet deck beneath his bare feet. It came whistling toward him, arched like a snake ready to strike, impossible for him to avoid in time.

"Lee!"

Elaina didn't remember calling his name. It felt rather as if time slowed while she moved, finding slightly better traction with her boots, knowing if that rope struck him across the face as it was poised to do, even her particular talents might not be enough to save his eyesight. Hauling him up against her chest, she whirled around, protecting his body with her own. A line of fire blazed down her back as if someone had brought down the single tail of a whip with all the power of the furious sky. Blood ran in a crimson stream from the welt and she barely heard the shouts as Ade caught the wayward line in one strong hand and boosted her upright with the other. Whatever yelp might've escaped at the pain of the motion was lost to the raging storm and roiling clouds, for which she was grateful. Mathison appeared as if out of nowhere to peel the fourteen-year-old away from where he clung to her, asking over and over if she was okay.

"Yes," she tried to tell him through numb lips. "Yes, it's alright." Pain throbbed in time with her racing heart and unwelcome memories pressed in like weights, threatening to drown her with their insistence. Ade gave her a gentle nudge toward the cabin as he secured the rope, rain already cleansing it of her blood. The touch made her realize abruptly she'd frozen, and the Jackdaw bucked and lurched under her feet, ready to dislodge any unwary sailor. She bolted for the cabin, not seeing the strange sort of anger in Edward's eyes. With the door muffling the ocean's rage, she began trying to clean the wound, her hands shaking so badly she dropped the rag. Repeatedly. _I can do this,_ she thought, chanting the words as if repetition would force them to come true.

The moment his Jackdaw was safe and sound, tucked into the cove large enough to shield them from the worst of it, Edward went to the cabin. What had she even been _thinking?_ He found her straining to reach the middle of the long gash, and it was obvious her efforts thus far had succeeded only in making matters worse. The words, and hint of temper, died before they reached his lips. Her blouse was in tatters around her shoulders and she wheeled to look at him, gray-green eyes filled with a storm of their own.

"I'm fine," she said as he crossed the room.

"Aye, if you call bleeding all over my cabin 'fine,' which I don't," he said, reaching out to take the rag. She recoiled as if he'd moved to strike her, and he raised a brow in question. Ah. He could read her better, now. The pain was obvious. But there was fear there, too, and the tell-tale tremble of her fingers. "Now, lass, if I wanted to do you harm I'd have done it already," he said, gentling his voice as he held out his hand for the cloth rather than trying to pluck it free again. "Quite a storm," he said conversationally. "Not so bad as it might've been, but no gentle rain, neither." Elaina kept her eyes on his as he went on. "Brave thing you did for the lad. Not a one of us could've hoped to be fast enough. Can't do much in this world without sight. You could've let him take the lash and healed him instead." Didn't strike him as something she'd do (obviously) but the thought had crossed his mind while wrestling the Jackdaw around the rocks. That helplessness, and sadness, of watching the rope tear free, the called warnings falling on deaf ears as Lee leapt for it, knowing the boy would suffer for the mistake, wasn't something he much enjoyed experiencing. Then, sudden as a flash of lightning, she was there, and instead of his young crew member crying and bleeding all over the deck, she was staring at him like cornered prey, her fierceness dampened, and they'd be wiping up _her_ blood instead.

"No," she said, finally giving in and handing him the bloodied rag. He stepped behind her as she braced herself against the round table, and the way she trembled under his hands did not escape him. "Talent isn't a cure-all. Maybe it could be with time, and practice, but not now. I wasn't sure I could. Didn't… _wouldn't._ Risk it." Not with Lee. She sucked in a breath as the wet rag touched her inflamed flesh. "And it doesn't work on myself." Stifling a pained cry as he gently worked to clean the wound, her knuckles went white as she gripped the desk.

"Easy," he said, rather as if he were soothing an injured lamb. Except this lamb seemed to have the heart of a lion. Albeit a wounded one. "Don't think you'll be needing stitches, but it's a near thing," he said, giving the angry slash a critical once-over. Standing there, unable to keep from admiring the strong, sleek lines of her back and shoulders, he traced a finger down one of the many silver scars marring the pale skin. Some ran straight, as if from a small whip, but some crossed over the rest in an apparent random pattern, the obvious work of a blade. Was this some kind of new trend for nobility? Did they find it pretty? "Now, what—" he began to ask, but she spun around to face him, something too close to panic in her eyes.

"Don't," she said, and such a wealth of pain filled the word he couldn't quite help the flash of anger. He didn't much like that she'd been hurt on his ship, in Lee's defense or no. He liked knowing even less someone else had already hurt her. No small wonder running off felt natural enough. Why were people so prone to acts of cruelty? Her skin was hot to the touch when he laid his hands gently on her shoulders.

"Alright," he said. "It's alright. No _unwanted_ hand, remember?" She tried to laugh and managed something closer to a hiccup, flinching as the movement set the wound to stinging.

"Trying not to think about it," she said. "Don't want to think about it."

"Then don't," he told her, framing her face in his hands. "You're safe here." The words bore repeating. "We'll be waiting out the storm for some time yet. Let me bandage that wound and get you some rest."

"Okay,"' she said, staring at him as if blinking might mean he disappeared. His hands were cool on her cheeks, comforting rather than unsettling even as he brushed her hair forward, away from the cut where it might want to stick. She moved when he turned her, allowing him to bandage the cut as best he was able—which was quite a challenge considering the length of the damn thing.

"You'll stay out of the Galley for a few days," he ordered. "This won't hold otherwise." When she didn't immediately protest as he'd anticipated, he peered over her shoulder, and eyed the spots on his desk.

Wasn't raining indoors now, was it? Ah. No. Of course not. Bringing her gently back to face him, he tilted her face up with a careful nudge of her chin, her tears dampening his fingers.

"Thinking about it?" he guessed. She moved as if to dash the tears from her cheeks, but quickly regretted the motion as it pulled at her back. Wincing, she lowered her hands and gave him a helpless look.

"They tried to cut it out," she said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. "The talent. Magic. Whatever you want to call it."

"Voodoo," he supplied, and she coughed on the laugh. He had a talent of his own in that respect.

"Voodoo," she said. "One of the doctors had a friend in the Templar order. That's how they discovered what I have. What I can do." And could do, potentially, if she worked at it. How she expected him to react, she wasn't sure. Whatever it was certainly didn't entail him drawing her close, the embrace beyond gentle and carefully placed so as to not jostle the wound.

"Going to be alright," he said, and hoped it was true as the words were all it took before her arms came around him and she began to cry into his chest. He stroked a hand over her dampened hair. Comfort wasn't necessarily his strong suit…but he still knew how it was done. Good thing he'd removed his pistols at the first onset of the storm, else his powder would truly be wet by now. "We'll be finding Mary," he said. "And you'll get on to Scotland where it's safe. Nobody will be slicing into you that way again." The thought of it heated his blood with something just outside rage. That anyone could consider their child so broken as to subject them to a doctor's _experiments_ … It was beyond him. The simple fact that it was the reminder of a whip and old scars, _not_ everything else she'd been through so far which finally tore down the wall she hid behind, told him more than all the words they'd exchanged.

He stood there, quiet but for murmured encouragements, until the tears ran themselves dry. Glancing over her shoulder, satisfied that the bandage had held despite her shivering shoulders, he gave her a careful push toward the bed and dug around in the dresser drawers until he came up with a shirt he figured was at least _mostly_ clean. His, though, and therefore not her size, but he wasn't about to go rummaging through her things. They both had done well enough keeping their hands to themselves and he wasn't about to start a new trend. The size of it would be helpful, anyway, in not restricting the bandaging, so he did away with what was left of her blouse and tugged the garment over her head before she could argue overmuch. Not that she was in much shape for it. It worried him more than the wound itself. That, she'd heal from. But he wasn't entirely sure what to do with the fragility. The lion was easier to deal with. _Irony._ When she settled into bed, he pulled the blanket up over her and would've gotten up again but for the fact she'd taken hold of his hand, and didn't seem inclined to let go.

"Thank you," she whispered. He shifted his weight, drawing his thumb over her fingers.

"You're welcome." Wouldn't do any of them any harm for him to wait until she fell asleep to move. With his free hand he pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. On the round desk, buried beneath a layer of scattered maps, was the scrap he'd snatched up from Torres's little meeting. Seemed like so long ago, now. Would it always be the nature of things, to change so quickly? Perhaps, as it kept happening. In a rather short while he'd already gone from considering Elaina an errand he'd rather not have run in the first place to someone...well. More than that. If only he could simply take her to Scotland himself. Then at least he could get back on track with the hunt for Roberts. But without knowing where the problem lay with the Assassin's communications...maybe he ought to do less floating, and more searching.

Then she'd be off, safe and sound where she belonged, and he could find the Observatory as he was meant to. And a cook. Hopefully with a nose. Looking for Mary wasn't getting them anywhere. Clearly whatever she was off doing was of greater importance to the Assassins. Perhaps she didn't even know what happened. Possible, if messages were being intercepted. Yes, he thought, eyeing the maps and mentally calculating distance. Time to make a change of his own.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** I've chosen Monday as 'update day' (assuming all goes to plan!) because Monday can always use a little bettering, in my opinion. Also, while I've tried to keep cursing accurate to the time period...some are just too entertaining to leave out. And you may notice chapter length fluctuating some as I try to find balance between too long, too short, and just right. Enjoy!

* * *

Consciousness came back slowly. Elaina opted not to open her eyes, remaining completely still instead. What was real from the day before and what wasn't? She knew Edward had helped her with the cut. But in the dark, when the fear came back with its sharp knives and whispers, a wolfish snarl sent them spiraling away into nothing. Now _there_ was an imagining. Except...she opened one eye, and found him staring back at her. She blinked. Shifted. The wound twinged, throbbing unhappily as she gave it notice. The space wasn't exactly meant for two people who didn't want to be close, and she was...ah. His arm did make a nice pillow. Apparently. Who would've thought? She was pressed to his _clothed_ chest, though it was clearly somewhat awkward for him since he couldn't lay his arm over her without disturbing the bandages.

"Hello," she said, her voice shy. _Oh, God._ How long had he been there? He waited a moment as if expecting a flash of temper. _How dare you!_ And all that. When it didn't come, he shrugged a shoulder.

"You had a nightmare," he said simply. Several, actually. But it seemed she never came fully awake with them. Unlike certain other cabin occupants.

"Oh," she said with a frown. And since he'd nearly ended up with his face becoming much better acquainted with the floor the second time he rolled out of the hammock to soothe her, he'd decided (perhaps somewhat grumpily at the time) the only way for both of them to get some rest was for him to stay put. So he had. Spending the night in bed with a pretty woman was one thing. Doing it with clothes on was quite another. Surprisingly, she hadn't come to for that, either, instead cuddling up to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Haven't had them in a while," she said. "Sorry. You didn't have to do that." Of course not. Didn't she know he was well aware of the difference between what he _had_ to do and what he _chose_ to do?

"Better than snoring," he said, his voice dry.

"I don't snore," she objected.

"Mhmm."

"Do not!"

He grinned at her as she glared back. There, now. That was better. She glanced down, and looked back at him.

"I'm wearing your shirt." When had that happened?

"Aye," he said.

"Looks better on you," she said.

"Oh," he said, his gaze heating just slightly. "Don't know about that. You wear it well enough." She laughed, the hint of a blush coloring her cheeks. He angled his head, noting the shade. _Hmm._

"Sod off," she told him, giving him a nudge. Except he was quite solid, and the nudge moved him exactly nowhere.

"Looking for Mary hasn't done us any good," he said, changing the subject since his mind was apt to wander what with nudges and the way she was looking at him. _She's hurt,_ he reminded himself. _Don't be a pillock._ "If we're ever going to see this through, we need to know how the Templars found out where you'd be."

"Yes," she said slowly, watching his face intently. "Seems like more trouble than you signed on for. Maybe it'd be better after all if I…" But he was already shaking his head.

"Trying to get me unmanned, are you? _I'll_ be the one having to explain to Mary why you aren't on my ship," he said. Pricking at his conscience was one thing. Her hidden blade tickled in a way all its own. He might have gotten away with it if he'd been able to talk her off the ship when it first happened. Now? Doubtful. Doubtful indeed. Elaina tried not to smile at that. His closeness and the humor in his eyes made her almost forget the wound streaking down her back.

"No, no, since _I'd_ be the one explaining to all the ladies why you can't perform," she said, a laugh in her voice.

"Besides," he said, carefully detangling himself from the sheets as she eased back to give him room. "Crew seems to like your cooking." Well-fed men didn't tend toward arguments near as much, after all, and they _were_ well fed.

"Oh? Just the crew?"

Edward gave her a look over his shoulder as he tousled his hair back into some semblance of order, deigning not to reply. _He'd_ certainly never sent back anything but an empty plate. Elaina pushed herself up on one arm and he reached out to push her down again…with exactly one finger. She glared at him, though she couldn't help but laugh. Mostly at herself. It only took _one finger?!_

"Really?" she complained.

"Aye," he said, getting to his feet and straightening the Assassin's robes before reaching for his discarded leathers. "You'll be staying put for a time."

"But the Galley," she protested. He smiled to himself, his back turned to keep it out of sight. Now there was the argument he'd been expecting.

"You've taught Lee and Javier both how to manage a pot, haven't you?"

"…not if it means I'm of no more use in the kitchen," she said, and there was such a note of annoyance in her tone he had to laugh.

"To my mind, Lee owes you something for that," he said, tilting his head to indicate her back as he turned, adjusting the buckle on a holster. "Now, they may not have mastered the 'fine dining' touch you've got us all hooked on, but he and Javier can get by until you're fit to stand. With _out_ hurting yourself," he corrected as she opened her mouth to point out she could _stand_ just fine. Probably.

"I'm not going to win this argument, am I?" Was it worth it to try?

"Captain knows best," he said, and gave her a wicked smile in response to the narrowed eyes. No fear in them today. _Good._ She pillowed her head on her arms to watch him finish with the holsters and pick up the guns that belonged in them. They gave each other privacy to dress whenever possible, and since she was often up before him, it came in the form of one or the other already abed when the time came. So, it was the first opportunity she had to see him gear up, as it were, though it might not be called 'dressing,' exactly. Putting on one's armor was more like it. Either way, it felt oddly…intimate.

"Don't suppose you'd hand me that, then?" she asked, resigned to her fate. If the man was going to parrot her own words back at her, the battle clearly had already been lost. He followed her pointing finger to her sketchbook lying on the table, the pencil tucked away inside making the pages curl. Scooping it up, he moved to give it over, pausing a moment to take in the view of her, black hair with its silver strands tumbling about her face and shoulders, her eyes more gray than green in the light. The delicate slash of her cheekbones and curve of her spine…yes, she wore his shirt quite well, if he said so himself. "So what's your plan?" she asked as he set it down within her reach. He shrugged, resisting the urge to flex his wrist. The hidden blade was a comforting weight and he knew it would respond. No need to go flashing it everywhere.

"Find Ainsworth and string him up by his ankles?" he suggested, watching her face.

Shifting, hiding the wince, she nodded. "Yes, that'd work if the information we need happens to be in his pockets at the time."

"Pirates have…their ways of making a man talk," he said. Sing, even. Like a tiny bird desperate to keep certain body parts attached. "We've time yet. First we'll be finding that little gem of a merchant ship, if the storm didn't go bashing her up against the rocks. Then we can make a tidy circle back toward Havana." Elaina smiled at him, appreciating that he took the time to include her in the plan when he could just as easily have brushed her off. He studiously ignored the way it lit her eyes. He'd now both nearly kissed the woman _and_ slept beside her, all without being entirely inappropriate. Perhaps he could convince himself that this was all Mary's fault and he was absolutely _not_ losing his touch.

"How are we going to get close to Ainsworth without being noticed?" she asked, worry creeping into her heart on leaden feet. And what of her fiance, Darren? Where would he be in all of this? Was he still looking for her, or had he returned to England?

"How am _I_ going to get close to Ainsworth," he corrected, his hard stare cutting off a protest before it could begin. "You won't be going near them, lass. Leave that to me." Rather, they wouldn't be going near _her._ Last thing he needed was somebody recognizing her and sounding the Templar alarm before he'd had a chance to wring the man's neck a few times. They had to be incredibly careful in Havana as it was. Recognizing it'd be idiotic to argue—though she was tempted to point out again, it wasn't exactly _his_ fight—she opted to let it go instead.

"I'm well enough to take stock of a schooner's galley," she told him. "Once we find her." He cast her an amused glance. She'd certainly taken well enough to the way they operated. Stealing, that is. Then again, perhaps it was hard to hold loyalty to a country so…infested with Templars. The Assassin presence in London was strong, but not strong enough to prevent _every_ wrong—nor entirely eradicate the growing numbers of the enemy.

"We'll see," he said, and padded outside into the cascading sunlight.

"All hands on deck!" came Ade's voice, and she listened to Edward leap up the stairs and take his place at the helm. There was an interesting, and almost comforting tidbit about the cabin she hadn't noticed until then. With the Captain and his Quartermaster literally right above, it was easy enough to tell who was where just by the sound of their boots on the solid wood.

"Land-ho!" someone—was that Raul?—shouted.

"Aye, I can see that, you bloody stockfish! Have you got anything between your ears? We haven't moved!" Edward's voice rolled back.

"Sorry, Captain," came the sheepish reply.

"Weigh anchor; hoist the sails!" Ade shouted as laughter rippled up and down the deck. Ahh, lookouts in training. Elaina shook her head, unable to dislodge the smile, and flipped open the sketchbook. Edward was right. There was time yet.

* * *

Time was exactly what they got, as the schooner was nowhere to be found. Three days slid by during which the wound did not get infected, something Elaina had to appreciate considering how nasty a turn _that_ could've taken. Not that she was allowed up again. Edward was…quite insistent. She might've found it sweet if not for the fact he seemed to enjoy pushing her buttons every time he came prowling through the cabin. And, curse him, he was getting rather good at it. His patience waned thin with the search, however, and he ordered one last sweep of the islands before abandoning the idea of the fine little prize entirely. Maybe she'd somehow escaped the storm.

"Sail! Sail-ho!"

"Finally," Edward muttered, rolling his shoulders to loosen the muscles. He loved standing at the helm of the Jackdaw, certainly, but sailing for hours on end did in fact wear on the body.

"Something strange about this, Edward," Ade said, raising the spyglass to his eye. Following his Quartermaster's gaze, he took in the view, frowning slightly. The schooner was nestled up against an island's sharp, rocky drop-off, too close for any sane ship or crew, and even from their distance he could hear the sound of wet timber and metal grinding on the teeth of those rocks. Evening was coming in, the sky darkening and beginning to glitter with its many stars, but the view was clear.

"Aye, you've the right of it," he said, releasing the wheel to take the spyglass and scan the horizon as Ade took the helm. No sign of a crew on the soon-to-be-doomed vessel, either. Pity, too. She was beautiful. When no white sails leapt into his vision, he stepped to Ade's side and gave the schooner another once over. The storm hadn't done this. And she wouldn't have been alone. So why had the crew abandoned their ship, and where were the brigs meant to guard them? The Jackdaw arrowed in closer. And the scent of fresh powder drifted to them on the fresh sea breeze. "More sail!" he called sharply, reclaiming the helm from Ade even as a lone man scrambled onto the abandoned schooner's deck, waving a torch like a hazy yellow flag. The Jackdaw surged forward, beginning to turn away from the other ship.

"Fuckin' pirates!" he screamed across the water. "Think you'll have my ship? Eh? _Eh?!"_ Fire sizzled and popped, the single sailor making every lewd gesture he could think of at the retreating brig. "You nancyboys! Won't have nothing! Nothing but a—"

It felt as if the world took a breath, and the explosion was the exhale. Timber splintered and sprayed in a wide arc as the powder went up, fire roaring in a defiant spout toward the cliff, a sound which competed with the grating rock giving way of the island and crashing into ship and water alike, dragging the broken pieces of schooner to the bottom in a rush of foam and the hissing of steam.

The sailor was nowhere to be found. "Distraction," Edward said, and as if on cue, not two, but _four_ ships emerged from where they'd remained hidden behind the island, entirely unseen from their first approach. Two brigs and two larger frigates, each proudly flying the Spanish flag, cut through the water as knives through silk.

"All hands on deck! Man the cannons!" Ade shouted as their captain urged the Jackdaw out to the open sea. There'd be no herding him into that mess. He eyed each ship critically. So, knowing pirates were after them, they'd decided to empty the schooner of its valuables and use it as bait. Effective, perhaps, if their pursuers had been idiot enough to think the storm had tossed the boat there. Which meant…ah. One of the frigates rode lower in the water than it ought, and he smirked.

"Seems they're trying to keep our prize from us," he called out, glancing over his shoulder to gauge the distance. "Are we each in favor of taking it after all?"

" _Aye!"_ came the responding roar. No man would be whimpering _nay_ today!

"Then _fire!"_ he said, and the cannons screamed in response, thudding home into the bow of the closest brig. Battles were always tricky when trying _not_ to sink a ship equipped with considerable weaponry of its own. Few matched the Jackdaw, but it was a delicate art to keep his ship intact whilst seriously disabling another. Oh, yes, and sending those two brigs below where they belonged. The other was making an incredibly wide loop, hoping to come in from their other side and force them toward the pair of frigates. Unfortunately for them… "Mortars!" Edward cried, and relished the shriek of shells as the unlucky brig put itself squarely within reach of the long range weapon. Cannons barked and spit fire and death while the nearest frigate angled away, leaving the first escort to take the brunt of it even as the second brig floundered, her deck broken into pieces by the direct hit, the mast already leaning sharply to the side.

Heavy shot blasted through flesh and wood, steel screeching as it gave way under the assault. Muzzle flashes gleamed off the water in the growing twilight. Determined to put their ram to good use, Edward pointed the Jackdaw's prow directly at the brig, and let their momentum carry them forward. "Brace!" The other frigate, whose name was painted in gold in some sort of swirly lettering he couldn't quite make out, had completed her maneuver, presenting them with her side. As the Jackdaw lunged forward, the wind catching her sails just right, the brig's hull splintered under the force of the ram. Screams of doomed sailors painted sky and water red with ragged brush strokes, fire blazing to life as the powder caught, and rushed up the mast as if in a hurry to reach the top. Tearing away, wheeling his ship to freedom and safety from the inevitable explosion, Edward looked again at the frigate. _Tigre._ Ah. She showed her claws, then, and the cannons boomed. "Brace!" he roared once more, cannonballs hitting their mark in sprays of splinters and vicious furrows dug into his immaculate deck. "Damn these bilge rats straight to hell," he snarled, leaping up and taking in the damage with one glance. They'd taken a fine hit, and there were still two frigates to deal with. The second ship, hoping to mimic the Tigre's success, was gliding through the water not far from her, dying sunlight and flame reflecting off of her cannons. They moved faster, unburdened by the lost schooner's cargo. _You're next,_ he thought, and hardly heard Ade's order to crowd on the sail as they reached for every last scrap of wind.

A little distance never hurt anyone...unless you were on the receiving end of the mortars. Red smeared the broken planks and Mathison was struggling to work with Norris on readying their cannon, blood gushing from a nasty wound in his side. Whatever riches the Tigre now carried had better be bloody _worth it._


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Do feel free to point out typos if you find them! I proofread carefully but sometimes they're sneaky and I'm blind, apparently. Next chapter will probably be longer; I'd love input on the subject but as of now I'm aiming for somewhere between 5-6 pages in Word. Except for this one. Because reasons. Thanks for reading!

* * *

A firefight was to be expected when hunting Spanish merchants. However, sometimes a pirate could get lucky and sink the escorts in such glorious fashion as to, shall we say, _convince_ the schooner to surrender before such harm were to be visited upon it as well. That luck was nowhere in sight. The moon had risen fully, silver light illuminating the shipwrecks and survivors flailing for purchase on bits of shattered wood. With the island within reach, there was hope for survival...if they made it there before the sharks. Edward had no time to think about it, however, as the Tigre was still in fighting shape, though they'd exchanged blows with the second frigate. Courtesy of the mortars and an excellently timed round of cannon fire, she labored in the water, the damage to her sides obvious from where he stood at the helm. Chain shot whistled, slicing through the air end-over-end to connect squarely with the frigate's mast, disabling it permanently. Men shouted and cried out, scrambling over one another to avoid being crushed beneath the toppling wood.

"Ease off!" Ade barked. The Jackdaw slowed. Repairs would be necessary. Both of the human and ship kind. But first… Heavy shot cracked, the sound echoing over water disturbed only by the war frothing her surface. The Tigre's captain was no fool. He'd gotten off no less than two direct blows of his own, letting the other three vessels chip away at the heavily reinforced Jackdaw, knowing they'd more than likely be the last to be dealt with since they held the valuables. The ships came at each other head on, each trying to minimize damage to themselves whilst attempting to inflict the maximum on their opponent with the forward cannons and heavy shot. Edward was having far more luck with it, as evidenced by the bursts of splinters and occasional scream. The closer they drew, the more nervous the crew of the frigate became. Their captain shouted an order and someone scrambled to the rail, a bag bearing the merchant's seal in his hand. Thought they could 'lighten their load,' did they? _Fuck that._ He had _not_ just sunk the other ships and put an end to the Tigre in order to spend the next several hours fishing valuable out of the ocean. Relinquishing the helm to Ade, Edward yanked a pistol free of the holster, took aim, and fired just as the sailor reared back to hurl it overboard. He dropped in a lifeless heap, the goods he'd been meaning to discard landing square on top of him, blood spraying over the canvas sack.

"Prepare to board, lads!" Edward commanded, replacing the pistol and grinning across the space at the captain, who was staring at him open-mouthed in surprise. The look quickly faded, replaced by steely determination.

The time for exchanging cannon fire was done, thankfully, and a new sort of battle began near immediately as the Tigre's crew rallied, drawing weapons and guns of their own, ready to defend their ship no matter the cost. All who were able launched themselves to the frigate's deck and engaged the Spanish, cutlasses clanging and guns popping as each man fought for his life. Edward watched the captain a moment, noting the way his men looked to him for support and encouragement. There, then, was the key to ending the fight in short order. Scaling the rigging, he crept through smoke and around the sails, waiting for the opportunity to strike. It presented itself as the captain, letting out a roar not quite unlike the tiger his ship was named for, charged into the struggle.

Death came from above in a silent shadow as Edward dropped, the hidden blade responding smoothly and silently, though the noise wouldn't have much mattered. One moment the man was standing, brandishing his sword and driving his men to greater ferocity, and the next… the Pirate Captain rose from his crouch, smoke and gunpowder clinging to him as he moved, making him look almost as if he'd emerged from the haze of war itself. The shadow of his hood obscured all but the hint of a smile on his face. It was no Blackbeard's smoking beard, but it would have to do. Although the blood dripping from his blade to the deck was a nice touch if he did say so himself. The Tigre's crew surrendered near-immediately upon the realization their own captain had fallen, all hope of winning dashed, and were lowered into a boat just as quickly. He would have liked to press a few of them into service on the Jackdaw, knowing some of his own men were wounded, but with Elaina on board he knew plucking random sailors from the middle of the ocean wouldn't be the wisest idea he'd ever had. Taking stock of the situation, he waved on the members of his crew who'd come away with minor or no injuries. Morgan pushed his hair out of his face as he passed and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Jackdaw.

"You're needed, Captain," he said. Edward tossed his hood back and gave the man a nod, leaping back to his own deck and noting the damage with a heavy dose of irritation. More than they ought to have taken. Couldn't be helped now. His attention was immediately drawn to Norris, however, and Mathison. The green-eyed man sat propped up against a barrel, his skin pale and damp with sweat. Blood steadily poured from the wound in his side and even from where Edward stood at the rail, he could tell a doomed man when he saw one. Sorrow lanced through his heart, sharp and quick. Losing one of his men was never easy. Especially when they stuck around long enough for goodbyes.

"Look 'ere, lad, you just 'old on," Norris said. He'd torn open the thin shirt the other pirate wore, baring the damage to the sea air, and Edward winced as he approached. Not a direct hit from a cannonball, no, but the splinters had torn him up just the same. Upon closer inspection he noted smaller pieces, still lodged in his shoulder and chest, tiny blood trails snaking down from each one. Kind thing to do would be to shoot him, not let him bleed to death, but he and Norris had struck up something of an odd friendship, and he knew there'd be no separating them now. At the rate he was losing blood, though, it wouldn't be long.

"Know I'm dyin'," he said as his Captain dropped to a knee beside him. Bits of bone showed through the vicious gouge a large chunk of wood had simply torn out of his body.

"Looks that way," Edward agreed gently.

"You gotta…" his slender chest shook with coughs, ragged wet gasps which hurt just to hear. Blood flecked his lips as he fought to speak. "Tell my sister," he said. "My…the money, I…for her." Ah. Edward sat back on his heels. Some of his men were pirates because they wanted to be. For themselves alone. But some had stories similar to his own. Some had once been privateers, and found themselves at the wrong end of the law when their captains decided the riches were too grand to be merely abandoned. With few opportunities for a decent living—sheep farms, anyone?—being a pirate at least brought in _something_ for those back home, if you had them.

"We'll see to it, Mathison," he said, and Norris nodded his agreement. The ships rocked gently in the water and what sounded like rather expensive dinnerware clanged about as the goods were loaded onto the Jackdaw. Morgan returned to stand at Norris's side, and several more members of the crew joined the half-circle, bearing witness to the loss of one of their own. Pirates weren't so prone to sentiment as the common man, perhaps, but when there was time to stand still and say goodbye, it was afforded. Raul, short (and very blonde) hair wet with sea spray and exertion, ventured up with Hanson. Emilio, the best of them at manning the chain shot, put his crate down and joined them, too, until nearly half the crew stood around the dying man and their Captain.

Mathison didn't _have_ to die. Did he? Could Elaina heal this kind of damage? Perhaps the better question was, could he ask her to? He himself had warned her not to reveal her talent to the crew. She was safer that way. He had the advantage of the Sense, and knowing just a little more about the world thanks to his time with the Assassins, however brief, and the hunt for the Observatory. These men did not. How would they react to someone who could heal with nothing more than a touch? As he considered the choices before him, knowing time to make a decision was dwindling, the cabin door opened. Spotting the ring of pirates and knowing immediately something wasn't right, Elaina started toward them. Hanson opened his mouth and received a sharp elbow in the ribs for his trouble, though from whom no one was entirely sure thanks to the close press of bodies and Hanson's size.

"Oh, Mathison," she said, catching sight of the man as Morgan shifted to the side to let her pass.

"Elaina," Edward began, not yet sure what he was going to tell her. Or ask of her.

"Let me help," she said, cutting him off. "I can help."

Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised. And yet, he was. They were pirates. Why would she volunteer and put herself at further risk to save one of them without even having to be asked? Meeting her eyes, the gray of them somehow brighter in the moonlight, he quickly gauged the amount of blood Mathison had already lost and gave her a curt nod.

"Give us room," he ordered.

Silence reigned for a long moment. The unspoken question hovered. What could _she_ possibly do? "Is there nothing more to be taken from the Tigre, then?" he asked, his voice sharp. Ade stepped up behind him, folding his arms over his broad chest.

"You heard the Captain," he said. "Finish the job. Let the woman do hers." Exchanging unhappy looks with one another, the gathered crew began to disperse as Elaina knelt beside Edward, taking Mathison's cold hand in hers as she inspected the wound.

"You ever tried this before?" Edward asked, the question pitched low and for her ears only. The little gash on his arm was one thing. And hadn't she said she didn't have much practice? Norris, who hadn't moved despite the order, was watching them intently.

"No," she admitted quietly. "But I'm going to try." His survival would be a near thing as it was. Nerves prickled under her skin, but for once, her hands were steady. When it came to healing, they always were. Well. So long as that healing was on somebody else. Taking a deep breath and casting a nervous glance around deck, well aware of the eyes on them despite the grudgingly given distance from most of the men, she shut out the distractions and focused on the dying young man. Silver light came to life under her hands as if it were a piece of the moon itself, and Edward found himself watching her face rather than the wound as her eyes narrowed and she mouthed a curse to herself. _Giving you trouble already?_ he wanted to ask, but dared not break her concentration. Silence smothered the ship in a silken veil, as if no noise could penetrate while she worked. In the back of his mind, he noticed Mathison's breathing was no longer so strained and clogged with his own blood. Still, the work was not yet done, and the minutes ticked by. She paled, and took a short breath of her own. Steadying her with one hand, he looked down at his unlucky crewmember, and blinked. If what she'd done was only 'trying,' he wondered what she was truly capable of. How could anyone view a talent like that as anything but beautiful?

"That's all I can do for now," she said. Norris stared at her, eyes wide.

"What _are_ you?" he asked, looking between her face and Mathison's side. She found a sad, if somewhat wobbly, smile for him.

"I don't know," she said. She _did_ know she had a god-awful headache.

"Ain't natural," someone growled. She didn't have to look up to know who.

"She saved him," Morgan responded, his voice flat. Hanson's reply didn't reach her ears.

"He might still die," she said, looking at what remained of the wound. The bleeding had stopped, the big gash closed over, though his skin was raw and angry, much like a burn would have been. Small injuries were simpler, a matter of coaxing the skin to knit itself back together rather than attempting to repair a wound where a piece of the man was, essentially, missing. The effort massively drained her energy, and she blinked, trying desperately to keep the world in focus. There were other splinters she hadn't even been able to look at. And if Mathison was wounded, he probably wasn't the only one. She could do more. In a moment. She just needed a moment. Edward pulled her to her feet, conscious of the fact she still hadn't fully healed from her own cut, and silenced the whispers with a hard stare.

"Take him below and get him comfortable," he said. Morgan crouched next to Norris, giving him a bump with his shoulder and jarring him out of his frozen state, and the two of them gathered the unconscious Mathison into their arms.

"He's not the only one hurt," Elaina said, looking up at him as if unaware she was practically swaying on her feet.

"We can handle the rest," he told her, giving Ade a meaningful glance over his shoulder as he began to guide her back to the cabin. "Nothing so serious as that." _Luckily._ His Quartermaster nodded in response and immediately began assessing the injuries among the rest of the crew, quieting the whispers and staring with the stony look on his face.

"But," she said.

"Stop that," he replied.

Once inside, he guided her back to the mattress and gave her a gentle push. She sat, and glared at him, though it was half-hearted.

"You have to quit doing that," she said.

"I will when I've a reason to," he told her. Knowing he needed to get back outside, to quell any uncertainty and get them all somewhere safe, he began to turn back to the door, and hesitated. "You saved his life."

"If he lives," she said. The pirate made an irritated sound in the back of his throat.

"Aye, if he lives," he repeated. "Why?"

"Why? What kind of question is that?" She pushed her hair out of her face and rubbed at her eyes. Was feeling like she'd run five miles through quicksand normal? Too bad there was nobody to ask. And she hadn't even _finished_ the job.

"I didn't ask," he said as if that were explanation enough. Elaina gave him an exasperated stare. It might've had more effect if she hadn't also looked like she might fall asleep at any given moment.

"If I'd waited until you asked, he _would_ be dead," she pointed out. "Besides. Wouldn't be right."  
"Why not?"  
"Because," she said around a yawn. "Then you'd feel responsible if something were to happen to me as a result of it." _I already do,_ he thought resignedly. Whether or not it was her decision in the end. "And Mathison doesn't deserve to die. I'd be a coward to let him. Not a coward."

"No," he said on a sigh. She wasn't.

"And he hasn't learned to cook yet."

"What? You...what?" What had he said about not letting Mathison touch the Galley?!

"Oh, he hasn't come inside," she said, giving in to the fact he was likely to block any attempts she made to get up and flopping to her side, the twinging of her back hardly noticed thanks to the warm tendrils of exhaustion. "But he hovers. Watches. I think _he_ thinks I don't notice. Lee likes him. Pretty sure I caught him explaining boiling water to Mathison the other day." And then scurrying away looking incredibly sheepish, the both of them.

"Do _not_ let him burn down my ship," Edward said, and she smiled to herself. Was that a plaintive note in his voice?

"Aye aye, Captain," she said. He opened his mouth to say more, but when he glanced at her, she was already asleep, curled up in the sheets like she hadn't just been ready to argue with him a moment before. Muttering to himself about women and the way they tended to make no sense, he stalked from the cabin. He had men to glare at, loot to oversee, a certain frigate to sink for good, and repairs to make. Ah, yes, _and_ they needed to sidle back around to Havana. Grand. Just grand. A full schedule. _Temporary,_ he reminded himself. Now why wasn't that as much of a comfort as it had been before? All he needed to do now was gather information. Hopefully it'd be of a good sort, and he could dig up the nearest Assassin, hand Elaina over, and be on his way. And yet...he couldn't help but wonder why the thought irritated him so. Voodoo, that's what it was. Voodoo. Plain and simple.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** That awkward moment when life gets in the way and totally ruins your planned schedule. I've not been feeling well and I'm sure this chapter shows it, but I just had to get it done.

* * *

The arguments were to be expected. How _brief_ they were, however, was quite the opposite. As he'd thought, Hanson's voice was once against the loudest, making noise about sea witches and bad luck. Edward, prepared for the inevitable vitriol and upset, hadn't even opened his mouth before Norris began shouting the larger man down. And he wasn't alone. Mathison was quick on his feet and always willing to pitch in, even when his own work was done. While certainly an awful cook, he was a good lad, and liked well enough by most. None of them had caught ill eating Elaina's food _and_ she had a life saving talent. Who gave a damn if it was strange as all fucking hell? When a man's friends were concerned, there was more to it than simple 'women ought not be at sea' logic and superstition.

"It'll be the end of all of us," Hanson argued, glowering down at Norris. Edward had to admit the shorter man's gumption impressed him. While he wouldn't call any of his men cowards, some were simply...better suited for tasks unrelated to hand-to-hand combat. And yet Norris, who was a genius with the canvas but only went into a battle if Morgan was ahead of him, looked ready to take a swing at Hanson's rapidly purpling face.

The Captain chose that moment to step in, for Hanson wasn't without friends, either, and the last thing anyone needed at the moment was an all-out brawl on the damaged deck.

"That's enough, lads," he said. "Let us be grateful for the lady's help and hope we don't need it again any time soon, aye?"

"You said her bein' here was _temporary,_ Captain," Hanson snarled back. "Or did'n'you go and forget that while you were busy fuckin' her?"

Quiet descended as Edward arched a brow.

"Even if I was, " he said finally, once the silence had begun to grow uncomfortably long. "That'd be my business, then, wouldn't it? She'll go when it's time, and not a moment sooner. If you're so opposed, Hanson, _you_ could take your leave whenever you like." He gestured at wide expanse of water around them and the slowly sinking Tigre. "Seems a good a place as any, don't you think?"

Hanson's jaw tightened. A snowflake on the wrong end of the devil's ass had more chance of winning the argument than he did. Only the men closest to him-both of whom Edward was keeping a close eye on-would vote with him now. Even those who had been staunchly opposed to Elaina's coming aboard originally were no longer so outspoken.

So far, the ship hadn't sunk. The food was good. And now they knew she could mend devastating wounds. No pirate wanted his career to end on the wrong side of cannon fire. Death wasn't the retirement any of them had in mind. Such oddness was easy to accept (for now) when it meant survival. Perhaps she was good luck, or at least good fortune, after all. Hell, maybe having such a talent made her different from other women, who most certainly were bad luck to have on board. There now, that made sense! With a little rum it'd prove to make even more.

"Well?" Edward prompted as Hanson continued glaring at him rather than responding.

"No," he said, glowering. "Jackdaw suits me fine, Captain. Just. Fine."

"Good," Edward said cheerfully. "Then let's get moving!" Quite enough chin-wagging for one day, thank you very much. Just like that, the argument was over, and his men got to work as if nothing at all had happened. There was another nice thing about pirates. They knew how to let things go. Well. Usually. Edward leapt up the stairs to take his place at the helm, brushing his hair away from his eyes. Crisis averted! Now, to find a safe place to repair his beloved Jackdaw… Ade joined him not a moment later, inclining his head at Hanson as the man stowed and secured a cannon more furiously than was entirely necessary.

"Best we keep an eye on that one, Kenway," he said.

"Aye," Edward agreed. If Hanson continued to challenge him, well… The crew was a unit. Divided briefly by squabbles and tussles over women, rum and loot, they always came back together as one when the argument blew over. Hanson was creating a divide. The best sailor in the world wasn't worth the trouble that would bring. Especially if it continued to worsen. Pirates could challenge their captain without an outright mutiny. Such was life on a ship where men weren't bound by contracts and constraints. But this was different, and Edward felt it in his bones. Ignoring that instinct would be folly. Problem was, Hanson seemed the petty type. If he was simply removed from the Jackdaw's service, he'd be up and down whatever boardwalk would hold his weight, shouting and carrying on about the Jackdaw and the strange woman the Captain had chosen over his own men. No, Edward would have to kill him. The thought made him uneasy. Oh, not the killing itself, for he'd done plenty of that and would do plenty more. But cutting down one of his own crew...that was new.

For a woman he still hardly knew, no less, and a favor to Mary Read and the Assassins. Didn't seem right somehow. Surely neither of them would ask such a thing of him. Hanson had been just fine before all this mess! Mostly. The little things could be overlooked. This wasn't a little thing. And he'd told Elaina he would see her through safely. _Bugger._ Letting out a sigh, he scrubbed at his face with both hands as Ade called out instructions and the men worked to stabilize the Jackdaw's weak points. The sails began to swell under a light breeze. He had time yet. And there was still the hope, however vain or slight, that the information he'd soon be chasing down in Havana would be so useful and informative he could simply deliver her into open Assassin arms and get on with his life. Such as it was. Shoving the thoughts away, he turned his attention to the ocean, and fixing his brig. Everything else could damn well wait a while.

And it did, especially since it took them the better part of the day to limp up to an uninhabited island far enough away from the scene of the Tigre's wreck and misleading string of coves and rocks to be safe. Considering the prize they'd taken, Edward opted not to seek out a small port, instead preferring the anonymity and relative safety of caring for the ship away from prying eyes. The repairs were small enough to be easily handled, although it would take a bit of time. While the Jackdaw didn't need to be hauled entirely out of the water, high tide allowed them to come in close. Indeed, the boats for shuttling the men back and forth between land and brig were nearly unnecessary. As the crew scattered to assorted tasks, securing the ship and tromping off into the trees in search of sturdy ones to chop down and put to good use, Elaina ventured out on deck. Lee and Javier were at her side near-immediately, which made her laugh. The sound shimmered out over the water and Edward tilted his head to the side as if he could see the sparkle.

He watched the trio from the corner of his eye as he checked, and re-checked the rigging and lines. His ship would _not_ go floating off without him. The lads peppered her with questions, which she bore and answered good naturedly.

"Have you always been like that?"

"Long as I can remember," she said.

"Can you fix _anything?_ "

That made her laugh again, and their voices drifted in and out of range as they moved items from the Galley to the deck in preparation for the bonfire Lee assured her absolutely _was_ going to happen. Tradition, it was! Whenever the pirates went aground, either to mend the ship or care for her hull and the barnacles which so loved to cling there, a bonfire followed soon after. They didn't have time for a proper party, but a good night or two dancing in the sand with a bottle of rum (or three) always tended to lighten a man's mood. Something made Elaina laugh once more and he paused. If he hadn't known better and been prone to such delusions, he might have thought she and the boys sounded rather like a family. Shaking off the notion, he left the lines alone and padded to the rail. Logs not fit for his ship were sprawled in a tangled circle, bonfire-style, dry brush sticking out of it every which way. Norris, on one knee in the sand, worked at lighting the fire. A whoop rose up from somewhere within the trees, rivaled only by the scream of the animal they'd cornered. The dark-haired woman and her two lads joined him, both boys laden with assorted items from the Galley. Edward arched a brow.

"Sure you need all that?"

"Better prepared than climbing back up here for more later," Elaina replied.

"There's the small matter of putting it back," the pirate pointed out.

"We've got more rum."

"Say no more," he said gravely, but his ocean-eyes were bright with laughter. "Shall we?" he asked, indicating the beach below. Waves hushed gently over the wet sand, leaving traces of foam behind. They were lit by the orange glow of flames as Norris successfully brought the fire to a roar. Elaina glanced over at him and smiled slightly.

"Alright," she said.

He helped her down, mindful of the still-healing gash down her back. Lee and Javier scrambled onto the island with no trouble at all despite their arm-load of goods. Like agile little monkeys, he thought, amused. Or half-decent pirates. Ade supervised the felling of the trees they'd be using to set his Jackdaw to rights. Soon the clean ocean air would mesh with the steady beat of hammers and men at work. Edward glanced back up at the ship, unmistakable fondness on his face. Murmuring a thank-you he nearly missed under the growing ruckus, Elaina moved toward the fire, smiling at Norris, who grinned back at her.

"'ow's Mathison?" he asked, taking pains to pronounce the boy's name right, as he usually did. He tossed extra kindling onto the blaze, encouraging the merry flames.

"Still resting," she said. He nodded and began lashing sticks together for the spit. Javier paid close attention to the older man even as Lee snatched up the other clean-scraped pieces to help him put it together. "He's breathing alright. Maybe he'll make it after all," she said, fascinated by the process. Cooking outdoors was a helluva lot different than a home kitchen or even the Galley, that was for certain. Mathison would miss it. She made a note to set aside some of the meat for him. Jerky tended to go rather quickly but there were a few places in the Galley she'd taken to hiding things she didn't want to vanish immediately down the gullets of hungry pirates. It was likely he'd sleep through the night, even with all the noise, and wake up starving. His body would need the fuel to further recover.

Those who had gone hunting returned in a rush of sound and glory, triumphant laughter ringing out between them as they half-carried, half-dragged a still live boar through the buttery sand. The animal thrashed weakly, leaving deep furrows in the soft earth.

"Tonight we eat like Kings!" Hanson roared, using his hold on short tusk to shake the boar's head and incite further cheering. Blood darkened the beach from the wounds which had brought it down, and Elaina paused, a sick feeling settling into her stomach. Surely he didn't plan to torment the poor thing further? It was meant for food, not entertainment. Hanson's gaze caught hers, and held. Never once looking away, he drew a long, wickedly sharp knife from his belt. Her hand dropped to her hip instinctively. Before he could yank the blade across the animal's throat, a gunshot cracked through the growing tension. Blood and brain matter sprayed over Hanson's chest and arms and he cursed in anger and surprise as he leapt back, dropping both knife and tusk in his hurry to move. All eyes went to Edward, and the wisp of smoke curling from his pistol. The pirate Captain smirked without warmth, his eyes cold and trained on Hanson.

"Let's be proper gents, lads," he said, sarcasm lacing his tone, sharp as barbed wire. "And _not_ play with our food." The big man turned without a word and stomped back into the trees. His poor humor didn't linger long however, as the prospect of a hot meal-and the rum!-had already settled in, and the merriment flared up in the vacancy he'd left behind.

"Ever skinned one of those?" Edward asked, inclining his head toward the boar. He had a feeling he knew the answer, but it seemed unwise to assume. Elaina smiled at him, a silent thanks mingling with the firelight in her eyes.

"No," she said cheerfully, pulling a slender knife from the supplies the boys had piled on the beach near the fire. "But we're about to." Not one to back down from a challenge, he thought good-humoredly. As she and the two youngest members of his crew set upon what would become dinner, he holstered the gun and went to help Ade and his men with the repairs. He wasn't worried about Hanson returning and finding Elaina alone. Norris remained close by and the woman herself was awfully handy with that knife. Still...a decision would have to be made about that man. _Soon_.

The smell of roasting meat mingled with sawdust and sweat as the sun gave up the fight and surrendered the sky. Soon, the pirates were lounged about the fire, drink in one hand and a hunk of steaming meat in the other. Elaina found herself sandwiched between Lee and Javier, with Norris and Morgan flanking the two of them like some kind of honor guard. Then again, maybe it was. Hanson had not yet returned. Edward laughed over the flames at her, so comfortable with men so rough around the edges. Had she ever imagined, he wondered, that her life would take such a sharp turn and dump her in his lap the way it had? He supposed not. He'd gone out searching for adventure, gold and glory on purpose. She hadn't been expecting any such thing. Yet she smiled back at him like all was right with the world. So much of the pirate lifestyle smelled bad and was messier than seemed entirely necessary. But the moments like these were perfect, and the rest paled in comparison. That she was included pleased her, surprisingly. It was nice to feel a bit less like such an outsider, even knowing her stay with them could (and likely would) end at any time. Though her stunt with Hanson and the whisky had earned her an easier place on deck, it was nothing compared to this. Now she was privy to the stories they swapped, too, which amused her to no end.

"So there is he, hangin' by tha' ankles," said a man named Frances, who was getting steadily drunker with each swig of rum he took. "Wearin' naught but what he was born in, and she goes'n'starts hittin' 'im like a... a..."

"Piñata," Elaina supplied, her lips twitching.

"Aye!" he exclaimed with such enthusiasm he tipped over backward off the log he'd been sitting on, which prompted a chorus of laughter at his expense.

"Never run 'round on a woman with a big stick," someone chimed in from the back of the circle, sparking another round of laughs.

"'Specially not when she knows how ta use it!"

Elaina couldn't help but smile to herself, wondering how aghast the women she'd known growing up would've been overhear such things. Crude humor was so beneath them, after all. Tittering was an acceptable response. Or was it shock and horror? The revelry began to die down a little at a time as men succumbed to drink and full bellies. Edward gave her a look through the slowly dwindling fire. His crew sprawled here and there, content as they could be for the time being, dark lumps of snoring manflesh dotting the sand. Edward added several more large pieces of wood to the fire while she got up and picked her way around the man-mines (not that tripping over one would hurt him much, anyway) to join the Captain. The two of them moved off to the beach in silence, and relative privacy.

"We make for Havana the moment repairs are done," he said, breaking the quiet. "I need you to be keeping your distance from Hanson." Until he was either forced into killing the man or she was safe, anyway. He watched her from the corner of his eye, waiting for the argument.

"Alright," she said simply. He blinked.

"Alright," he repeated. She gave him an amused glance.

"I already stay away from him," she said. "Hard to miss what he was meaning with that boar." He dipped his head in acknowledgement. Interference on his part or no, the intent and underlying threat was clear.

"Maybe we'll be finding good news in Havana," he said. She turned, starlight adding a sparkle to the storm in her eyes.

"Maybe," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you." With that, she turned away and he watched her go, raising a hand to his face. Good news, indeed. Getting her off the ship so he could resume his search for the Princess, he reminded himself. _That's_ what good news looked like. Hard to explain to an Assassin sympathizer what he was doing, and why he was doing it. Better not to have that discussion with someone who apparently had some kind of voodoo in her kisses, too, for his skin still tingled where her lips had touched. _Good news!_ He told himself sternly. Nothing more, nothing less. Padding back to the fire, he dropped himself into the sand with a heavy log at his back, and decided not to think about the fact that if he did find good news, he might actually miss her, just a little bit.


End file.
